There were two things in Graham’s life: his guitar playing and his girlfriend’s plot. Maybe they were connected somehow.
Graham was an unusually talented guitar player. The fingers of his right hand performed their work on the strings as if they had a life of their own. The fingers of his left hand obediently scurried up and down the frets. When he played, Graham would just watch and listen to himself with an amazed delight.
Chantel, Graham’s stunning girlfriend, sat pensive on the edge of the sofa with the cat beside her, tail twitching. Graham was spreading some delicious blue chords.
“Can you stop. We need to talk about the cat.”
The hands froze.
“Cat?”
Instinctively, the cat jerked off the sofa. It cocked its leg for a bad tempered wash (looked like it was strumming its arse). Then it sauntered off to the kitchenette. Chantel watched it leave. Then she closed her eyes and leaned her shoulders against the grubby wall.
“We need to get rid of the cat. You need to get rid of it. Just take it away somewhere.” She opened her eyes and seemed to contemplate Graham. “There’s a mutual hate going on. Your playing just makes you oblivious, Graham. And that’s why you have to do it.”
Chantel rose to her feet, fixing her gaze on the guitar.
“You need to connect to what’s going on. It’s falling apart. So, this will help you, Graham, like a sort of therapy. I don’t care how you do it. I don’t know … Kill it.” She raised her eyebrows. “Stuff it in a box, take it on a train-ride and dump it in some lost station in the middle of nowhere. And then, maybe, come back. Come back to me. Graham.”
