All I have left is a capo I never used to use lying forlornly in my handbag. I don't think there are even any photographs - she was such a part of my life that I never thought to capture her. She sold so quickly that I didn't get a chance.
She came alive under his fingers. He tried one tune, then another, tentatively - then, all of a sudden, broke out into music. That was the moment she ceased to be mine. I didn't have to ask if he wanted to buy her; we both knew he would.
He insisted I should say goodbye, so, for a sweet half hour, we jammed. That easy, musical communication - the flow of it, the buzz. It's been a long time since I played with someone else. "But you have other guitars to play," he ascertained, concerned. "You're not just giving up. Are you?"
As I left, I checked myself, sure I'd forgotten something. "Feels strange to be walking out without her," he said, knowingly, and hugged me, elated - "I've got a Taylor!"
I caught the tube back home, alone; no longer the girl with the great guitar; just another girl on the tube, listening to music she can't play, now.
I *have* to get another.