Wonderful

It is daytime as he sits in his bedroom. His back sits against a wooden chair and his feet rest casually on the wood floor. A fan wobbles overhead at a third of full speed. Four lights are on, beaming their spotlights nowhere in particular. It's mild; too balmy for Spring weather, outside anyway. He lives in the warmth year-round. The room is a dark red, not quite mahogany but not vibrant either. A bed is before him, an amplifier flanks his left, the door is to his right. Shelves and a television loom above ground; his other guitars hang behind him.

An electric guitar, jet back with faint pick scratches and traces of sweat, is resting on the bed. Her tone is rolled low, pick-up selector in neutral, tuned a half-step down, and already plugged in. At his feet is a toppled-mic stand, cord traceable to a laptop perched precariously on the bed's edge. He kills time, anxious, for an hour checking non-existent and unimportant news. He's nervous. It isn't palpable but it's there.

The music is before him, ready to sing notes through numbers. It's the best he can do without the privilege of scales or named tones. Today, his room is a studio. The walls try in vain to isolate noise, his locked door signifies the session's occurrence, his laptop is his mixing station. The acoustics could be better, always could be, but he can't complain. It's worked before. He's been able to convey his music in those makeshift conditions.

He takes in the scene, warms up, runs through the song's motions. The sound resonates through his amplifier and courses through the microphone. He records everything, deletes the takes, then records again. It has to be near-flawless. Through what seem to be hours, arpeggios flow from fretboard to hard-drive and bends slide into databanks. He's probably played that song fifty times by then but he keeps at it. A mis-picked note, an underwhelming lead line, an unsatisfactory take; they all prompt re-records. The hours of the day melt into night. In that studio it is as bright as the four bulbs allow. Outside it is darkening.

It is a late-night dinner outside when he deems his takes satisfactory. The clatter of the silverware and china reverberate through the recording in spots. The tones could be better but it is late. His comfort zone of expression has passed. He stands, removes his electric and sets it down on the bed. Crouching, he adjusts the mic-stand to its proper height and sets it on the ground. An emergency glass of water is by his side. Earphones on, he swallows his fear with his water and starts to record over his accompaniment.

The words are another's but the emotion is his own. The music carries the scene to any given night, fictitious at that point in time, shared by a couple. He sings of a lady, hair dark and long, fussing over herself before a party. The lyrics aren't correct, at least not by the original, but the thought is. His voice strains as the two move to their gathering. They share in mutual feelings of splendour, of wonder. He continues on, vocal cords unaccustomed to the strain, eventually admitting his own sentiments. Bound by the rhythm and metre of the pre-determined lines, he hopes his delivery can hold its own weight.

Another hour or so sees him nitpicking at wavelengths before he finishes. It isn't the best. It isn't better than anybody else's. Still, he feels it can express some sort of emotion. A favour asked late into the night and the song is sent along on the pretense of critique. All he can do is hope for some sort of response. A call received and he spends the rest of the evening in cautiously optimistic happiness. She might say she feels wonderful. He knows for sure that he does.