we are holding hands under the table. You are trying desperately hard to listen to my mother talk about something the dog did last week as I am tapping out 'be bop a lula she's my baby, be bop a lula I don' mean maybe, be bop a lula she-he-he's my baby love my baby love my baby love' on your shoe and pulling on your trousers at the knee to make the hem dance.
It's a family game. Dad loved to come up behind me and put his arm around my shoulder during conversations with old ladies at church. He'd pinch my arm with his thumb without tensing his fingers, so Mrs. Maglumphy wouldn't know I was in terrible pain and resisting the urge to scream "Dammit Dad, will you fucking stop that shit?" as she asked me about how school was going and do I have a college picked out and so on. I'd grit my teeth and smile at dad, and he'd laugh a little and give my arm an extra squeeze indicating 'Just you try it, kid. You've got no way to prove it and no one will believe you.' I'm telling you, my dad should have been in the mafia.
You've pressed my hand flat in your palm, and you're pressing my fingers like guitar strings. I can feel the calouses in your fingers. Cylindrical and rough from fat classical guitar strings. I'm proud of myself for being able to keep up. The first note, your fingers in an arch over my pinkie, middle and third fingers...D. Second note, first, middle, and pinkie....C. You're taking it easy on me. You press my hand into what might be an E, but might also be an A minor, I can never remember. Now dad's talking about his plan to buy a wood splitter and make a million dollars. (I'm mister plow, that's my name, that name again is mister plow) You're agreeing with enthusiasm and singing barely audibly under your breath with the notes you play 'lovely Rita, meter maid, nothing can come between us'
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