Aida Zabidi
"Play me a song," she requested coquettishly.

He smiled and plucked at the guitar strings, playing the familiar melodies. "I don't know many, and those that I do know, I don't always know all of it."

He did not tell her the significance of the songs, the memories they evoked of a girl he once loved. He could not tell her that each song reminded him of a certain time, a certain memory.

"It doesn't matter, me still thinks it's hot that you can play the guitar."

He played a few more notes, and then stopped gently as she hugged him.

"Sorry, you're irresistable," she smiled again, giggling a little. He didn't know whether to be irritated or to laugh, reminded of an incorrigible child of sorts, one used to getting her way.

"We can do more than hug?" she suggested.

"I'd rather not. I'm not quite in the mood," he was morose, her touch had broken him from his stream of thought, and he was trying to re-capture a moment, a feeling. The song normally calmed him down, and he was agitated that he had been interrupted.

She pouted slightly. "Is it me? Do you think I'm fat?"

"The best girls aren't the skinny girls," he replied, having learnt to handle her moods. "What would you like for Christmas?" he asked, trying to change the subject before she started complaining about her body, her weight, the way she looked.

"You! Wrapped up in purple ribbons!"

He frowned again, torn between annoyance and laughter. It was the strange mood he was in, he rationalized. He never wanted to encourage her attentions, but she was so persistent, so playful in her moods that he never could quite figure out if she was messing with his head or being absolutely serious. "You're kind of cute, but I don't know you yet."

She pouted again, feeling like she was fighting a losing battle, suddenly feeling morose at his cruel truth.

"Hey you, I'm sorry for the not-so-good times."

He shrugged. "It happens. Sometimes I'm tired, or in a bad mood. It's not just you, it's me. That's life. I wish I could treat you better though."

"Maybe I should stop pestering you then," she sniffed.

"If you stop pestering me, I'll stop pestering you. Just as if you stop holding me, I'll stop holding you. No more tender hugs from behind," he teased.

"Don't!" she squealed before she even realised the words that came out of her mouth, realised how much she wanted him.

"No more listening attentively to you play the piano," he continued.

She blushed, "Dear, stop it!"

He laughed lightly, and then stopped, wondering how long this strange mood would last, and how the two of them would last. He wondered if he would miss her, the same way he missed his first love, wondered if the songs they had listened to together would remind him of them in the years to come, as they did with his past loves.

And so he continued playing his guitar, wishing for a day where he would have the answers, wishing that the answers would come to him with the strumming of his fingers.

But they rarely did.
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