@dejabrewed - because you write a thing when you have muse to write the thing even if you’ve got other stuff you’re supposed to be doing on a blog oops.
You’re maybe a little too old to be playing in shops. But it’s all you know how to do - your mother’s guitar between your hands on the soft sets, your voice crooning as calloused fingers shift chord to chord, plucking notes with eyes closed. The lights are too harsh on your skin (that’s her imagination, actually, the warmth of shop lights make her much younger than the harsh ones of the stage - she’s not quite a decade older but she looks the same. she’s just too close to see it); you think everyone must see every wrinkle no matter how good the make-up looks before you leave. --and you never start with her guitar, even if the acoustic sound is better background noise than the one you’d bought with The Shooting, the one to match Rin and her purple Rickenbaker, Kara and her pitch black, the one painted gold in bright contrast even though Rin’d begged you to go with a soft ice blue (and Kara didn’t say it, but Jess knows that if she had to pick a metal, silver fit best - but she had to stand out, didn’t she? wasn’t that the point?) - but you’re a rocker.           You were anyway.                                You’re not sure what you are anymore.
Her arms are way too full - two guitar cases on one side (she has such a hard time keeping them from knocking together if she holds one in each hand), her mother’s in her hand, hers tucked between arm and far too spindly waist; an amp in the other (heavier than the guitars by far but necessary) - and she has to put the amp down on the ground to open the door, brushing sunglasses up onto her head, tugging at her bright red hair. It’s too hot for anything but a tank top - it accentuates curves; Rin would be proud if she were still here - but she has multi-colored hoops and bands hanging from her wrists three inches high. They keep her from feeling so bare.
Jess places the amp just inside the door, glances around before finally, finally--
     “Jo, Jo!” A pause - Fuck - and she corrects herself (she is always shortening names; even when Dee named her Samantha, she was Sam, and Dee was always Dee; she couldn’t even remember what her real name was anymore)--          “Ms. Calloway--” Keeps the guitar tucked against her side, the other in her hand, is careful not to rush or speak louder than an almost hiss because to disturb the customers would be death--                 “It’s--- I’m Jess.” She holds out a hand, polite as you please. Or trying, at least.                        “...where do you want me to set up?”
