I take a drag on my Gauloises, exhaling as I stub it out, the smoke curling in the breeze wafting in from the open window as I look over at her.
She was magnificent tonight, I think. I had been gentle at first, then rough. I had pulled her tight against my striped black and white striped shirt and played her until my beret was limp with steam. The microphone fell in love with her, but it was I who took her home.
As we lay together now, I, nodding my way to sleep, she, safe in her case which I admit is slightly uncomfortable to sleep with, I remind myself to acquire a padded case cover, but I relish the thought of what to make her for breakfast.
New strings? Perhaps. She has earned them. But no. I will not spoil her with new strings. Instead, I will bring her a new pick. It will be encrusted with jewels. She will be happy.
And so I begin to drift off and dream.