SHE SAT AT THE FOOT OF MY BED, holding my guitar, in the same spot where I sat just months prior when I had the realization that I was in love with her. In lust with her? In love with her, I think. The full-sized instrument looked big in her lap, bigger than it felt in mine. She had asked me to show her, and so I did. She had asked me if she could try, and I carefully handed over the Taylor Electric Acoustic. I told her to hold it like this. I told her to situate her hand on the instrument’s neck, so that if I wanted to, I could fit a pencil between the wood and her palm. She tried. It was difficult. It had been difficult back when my teacher showed me, when I first held a guitar in my own hands. It’s okay, I told her, You don’t need to do that just as long as you can still make your fingers reach. I told her Put your index finger here, your middle finger here, your ring finger here, and your pinky finger here. Again she tried, and again she had trouble. Here, let me help you, I told her. I placed her dainty, not-quite-a-teenager-yet fingers on the fretboard as my heart pounded, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t notice how nervous I was. We were so close, it was so intimate, I wonder if I was shaking. I wonder if she would have noticed if I was. Nice, I told her. Now strum all six strings from the top to the bottom. She did. That’s a G chord, I told her, That’s the first chord I ever learned to play. She smiled, asked if it sounded how it was supposed to. Sort of, I told her, Not exactly perfect, but better than how I expected it would sound. Here, I said, and reached for her fingers to help her create a different chord. My fingers touched the back of her hand, my breath stalled. My pulse both slowed and quickened, impossibly at the same time. It felt like a perfect moment, one in which I could tell her I loved her, but she already knew that. I didn’t want to hear her awkward laugh, the uncomfortable tension shift that would inevitably come between us, ruin the intimacy. I wanted to stay close to her. I wanted to touch her, like I was just then, without restraint, without discomfort. Her hand was positioned, and she struck the strings a second time. That’s a variation of a C chord, I told her. Cadd9 to be exact. What does that mean, she asked. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. She took off the strap of the Taylor and delicately placed it back into my lap. Her hands grazed my skin once again, and I wanted to follow as they moved away. I wanted to touch her. Without restraint. Without discomfort. I wanted to tell her I love her, without restraint. Without discomfort. I wanted her to look me in the eyes and I wanted time to stop. I wanted to be taken prisoner of the space between us, and I wanted her to, too. I wanted to be stuck here, unable to break the connection that existed in my skin touching hers, and I wanted to render her incapable of breaking it, too. I wanted to place the instrument behind me, rid myself of that wooden barrier. Take her hand, and lead her even closer. I wanted to kiss her. Without restraint, without discomfort. But I knew that I couldn’t. I knew that I’d reached the end of this road, come as far as I could. I knew she didn’t want the same things I did. I knew that no matter how desperately I wanted to, I simply could not, could never kiss her. And so, I didn’t. •





Lacey Cohen is an emerging gay, Jewish writer based in Brooklyn, but she is a true and proud Michigander at heart. Lacey received her Bachelor's degree from the University of Michigan, and her MFA from Long Island University. She is a music fanatic and writes about it at The Broke Beat on Substack, and her creative works have been published in HAD, Bending Genres, and Barzakh Magazine, among others.

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