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Date Posted: 21:29:04 11/10/05 Thu
Author: Diane
Author Host/IP: cache-mtc-ad01.proxy.aol.com / 64.12.116.195
Subject: It Doesn't Really Matter
In reply to: Diane 's message, "Friday Challenge - Musical Instrument" on 21:16:49 11/10/05 Thu

Michael carried their wine glasses down the steps into the living room, while Nikita took their plates into the kitchen. As he sat, something on the floor along the wall caught his eye.

“This is new,” Michael commented. It was a statement, not a question, as it had not been there the night before. And “new” was definitely subjective when describing the faded guitar case toward which he had cocked his head.

“Isn’t it great?” returned Nikita. “I got it at a pawn shop for five bucks. It just, I dunno, I sort of felt drawn to it when I saw it in the window.”

Michael smiled. Knowing Nikita’s penchant for flea markets and rag sales, it could have been much, much worse. He ran his eye appraisingly over the case. It was old; no doubt about it. There was no way to discern its original color; green, maybe? Unless that was mould. Besides, almost every available spot had been covered with stickers of some sort; some so old they had melted into the material of the original casing. Some looked fairly new. Michael set the glasses on the coffee table and walked over to pick up the case so he could examine if more thoroughly.

It was heavier than he expected. When he sat down, he opened the latches to find a guitar inside. Nothing name-brand or classical, just a plain and inexpensive acoustic with fairly decent strings. Michael called over his shoulder. “I didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t,” came the not unexpected answer. “I really bought it for the case, but I thought I might fool around with it, you know, maybe teach myself.” Again, not unexpected.

He set the case on the rug, nestled the worn, wooden instrument in his lap and plucked a random string. And winced. Clearly, the guitar had not been used in some time, or else the owner had not been blessed with Michael’s gift of perfect pitch. It took a few minutes, but soon he was plucking notes and softly strumming chords.

“That’s our song,” exclaimed Nikita as she sat down beside him, reaching toward the coffee table for her glass of wine.

“We have a song?” asked Michael, confused. He knew the notes he was playing were familiar, but hadn’t put a name to the melody.

“From the cabin in Belgium,” Nikita prompted him. “The record we played when we were there.”

”Ma Jeunesse Fout le Camp, “ Michael replied instantly. He, too, remembered the song, and the memories it evoked were good ones; peaceful, if only for a while.

“Sing it for me,” Nikita cajoled.

Michael continued to play. “If I sang it, you wouldn’t want it to be ‘our’ song anymore,” he teased.

Nikita grinned. Michael was exaggerating, of course. He had a very nice singing voice. But this was the one thing in which Nikita excelled, and she was pretty proud of it.

“But I don’t know the words,” she reminded him.

“Does it really matter?” Michael asked softly.

Nikita took a sip of wine, then set her glass back on the table, snuggling close to Michael, bare feet tucked behind her.

“You’re right.” she agreed “It doesn’t really matter at all.”

The soft strains of their song floated softly into the night. To a place where memories are good; peaceful, if only for a while.

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