Blues in the Night

It's happened a half dozen times in the last few weeks: about 10 or 11 o'clock someone in a nearby apartment begins playing an electric guitar. They never play for very long, and it isn't wild or loud, and I can never recognize a song. It's just 10 minutes or so of improvisational playing with a bluesy sound.

I love it.

Normally the NYC sounds drifting in from the street below me annoy me. The cars with too loud music. The old men playing dominos. The hoochie girls arguing over some boy. They annoy me, and keep me awake, and make me wonder how much training I'd need to use a sniper rifle from my window.

But this is different.

I've never made it secret that guys playing instruments is just about the hottest thing ever. And guitar playing is just plain out aural sex. In my mind the mystery guitar player is tall and thin and lithe with muscular forearms covered in blonde hair. He's sitting up in that apartment somewhere on a milk crate in worn cotton boxers and a white v-neck t-shirt, barefoot, with a beer on the floor beside him. (Given the demographic of my neighborhood this is probably far from true, but allow me my fantasies, please.)

The first few times I heard it it was just an anomaly, one of those NYC things that happens now and then. But I didn't hear him last night, and I actually wondered about him. Somehow, this random stranger I've never even seen has become a part of my daily life, which definitely IS one of those NYC things that happens now and then, and that makes me happy.

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