Page 7 of Good Golly Miss Molly

So I spend my days creating works that lovingly bring wood back to life, in a new form, filled with the vibrancy and passion of music. And I spend my free time playing and writing music to give song to the tangible art I create. I cannot, even for a moment, complain about my life, even if it has been a little lonely at times.

The scar, the planes of my face, get strong reactions from most women. I‘m just simply not attractive to them. And that’s with my true appearance veiled from human eyes. The scars don’t stop at the one on my face, though no one has ever explained how they came to be. A curse of the changeling, in all likelihood. If their babies all look like me, it’s no wonder the fae steal beautiful human children.

Or maybe it‘s just me.

I pick up the guitar again and start strumming the chords to Joydrop‘s “Beautiful.” This song is just fierce, alternatively sweet and delicate and then aggressive and strong. An acknowledgment of the shallow nature of people — humans and otherwise, I can tell you from personal experience — but reveling in the unique beauty of those who don’t fit the standard mold. I sing it down a few steps so it’s in my lower vocal range. Not quite the same without that soft female vocal, nor the hard edge of the mirror vocal, the acoustic lacking the contrast of the mirroring electric guitar. But it’s a song I love, and I sing it with all the love I can muster — for it and for myself. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I’ve got too much to live for to waste it on self-pity.

This time I go ahead and hang the guitar over the workbench. Yes, this one‘s a keeper. I can’t keep them all, but sometimes one just calls to me. Kind of like a certain Molly...

I doubt she‘s Molly Malone, but would that I knew what her full name was, or anything else about her, so I could try to talk to her again. She flew out of here so suddenly, I have to wonder if I frightened her after all. That thought does make me sad. But I still hope I see her again so that I can make it up to her.

In fact… Sorry, Molly — the guitar, not the girl — I don’t mean to keep wavering on your location, but I’m feeling inspired, and I usually write on an acoustic. And I can’t writethissong on any acoustic guitar other than this one. Not this song. A songforthe other Molly…

I‘m lost in the music when a breeze blows in the still-open front doors of the shop, giving me a chill and jingling the little brass shop bells like they were wind chimes. What time is it? Midnight? Past time to close up the shop. I’m lucky none of the residents of the few apartments on the second floor of the shops complained about the noise this late.

I stretch my arms over my head, reaching to put the guitar back on its hook on the wall.

“No! Don’t stop.”

I don‘t know how I know that voice. I’ve only heard it once. But I know when I turn to the door what I’ll see.

“I’ve been listening… I liked it.”

It‘s a reluctant admission, judging by Molly’s tone, but I grab onto it like a kite string, hoping to keep her from flying away again and maybe to even bring her within range of my welcoming arms once more.

“Thank you. It’s not finished yet. In fact, I only started writing it a few hours ago.”

“I know…” she says, slowly approaching me.

Wait. What?

“You know?”

“I’ve… uh… I’ve been listening for a while.”

Her expression is one of discomfort, and I have no idea what to make of that. Maybe she loves the music but is equally put off by my appearance? It wouldn‘t be the first time. I’ve had a few women grit their teeth long enough to climb into my bed, only to regret it when the sun rose the next day. The music draws them in. I can’t help that. It’s my nature. But I can’t say it doesn’t hurt when it happens.

“It’s getting chilly out. You could have come in to listen. I can’t imagine standing on the sidewalk for that long was comfortable.”

“I sat down after a while.”

“On hard concrete. Not much better. You really should have come in…”

“I was avoiding it.”

Disarming candor. I smile despite myself.

“It didn’t work,” I point out.

“I know. But I didn’t want to come off as a creepy stalker, out this late just to listen to you play.”

“And standing — sorry —sittingon the sidewalk is less stalkerish?”

Her expression is wry as she comes nearly within arms’ reach, still seeming to want to keep her distance.

“I didn’t plan on getting caught.”

“What did you plan on?”

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