Nimble Fingers
It was the guitarist who did it for me—tall and athletic-looking with a mop of dark hair. And oh, those fingers. Long, slim and nimble with tidy nails, they manipulated the instrument into making the most intoxicating sounds I’d ever heard. The floor vibrated; the atmosphere was electric. I was hooked.
The place was packed. I listened to the band play with people singing and dancing all around me. They waved their arms, sloshing drinks everywhere and good-naturedly jostling one another. Despite all that, I felt like the only people in the room were the guitarist and I.
I watched those fingers glide up and down the fret board and wondered how they’d feel against my skin. Would there be calluses, dry skin perhaps, to chafe my most delicate parts? I didn’t care. I was deeply
