I have released eight albums in eight years. Six hours and twenty-four minutes of music. I feel squeezed dry. The last trickles of music seeping from my pores like blood. I’ve sat in my bedroom with a guitar between my heart and my hands and found melodies and textures that never seemed to be my possession.
Unable to respond in a friendly manner at this point, I immediately lost myself in the thought of how I should end this date. Should I just end it right now? Throw my money angrily on the table and storm out? Should I muscle through? Shovel my meal down in a frenzy, walk her to her car, and say, “So long divorce hater!” Should I never call her again? Or perhaps this could just be a one-nighter.