Guitar for Supper

I felt the strings of my new guitar twang under my fingers, and then I felt a chill. The front door was open…she was home.

“It’s me! Where are you…” Her voice faded as her eyes fell on the brand new, sparkly guitar in my arms. She dropped her purse in the doorway and crossed her arms. “What is that?” It was more of an accusation than a question. “With what money did you buy that, Stan?”

I decided the best defense was a silent one. I shrugged and smiled innocently before striking up a tune. I hummed merrily as my fingers strummed and my eyes searched her face for a hint of understanding.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I murmured.
“How much, Stanley? You don’t need this.”
“Yes, I do. I need a guitar if I’m going to make it big!”
“You need a job first, Stanley. A real job. One that pays the bills.”
“I need a guitar to get a job. To start a band.”
“There are some things you can’t sacrifice… not even for your dreams, Stan.”
“Like what? What’s more important than my dreams?”

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