Friday night, Emerson found his guitar shoved behind an old box in his storage closet. Three years it sat there collecting dust. He wiped it off with a cloth before settling onto the couch. It fit in his arms easily, as if they’d never spent a day apart.
It needed to be tuned, and sadly, an app on his phone had to help him. Before, he could do it by ear alone. So much knowledge left when unused.
He plucked the first E-string, then fine-tuned it to perfection. Ninotchka growled low in her throat at the sudden noise.
Laughing, Emerson lowered the guitar to floor level for her to inspect. She flinched away, initially, then cautiously approached, her long nose twitching. She sniffed its base, its strings, its neck. Her tongue quickly lapped at a knob. Satisfied it wasn’t food or something i
