by Jessica Word
He played his acoustic guitar for me, sitting Indian-style on the carpet. I lay upside-down on his bed – a futon mattress without a futon – focusing on the dark round hole in the center of the strings, hoping not to vomit. I was drunk. He knew it. So he sang because he could, because my head was sloppy, because he knew I wouldn't care if his fingers nailed the cords or if his throat found the notes. His music, my anchor.
Jessica Word is a writer, but always feels awkward admitting that to strangers. (She doesn't, however, feel awkward about eating Cheez-Its and chocolate for breakfast.)