Brindle Honey

It's a little after noon when we pull into a leaf-shaded spot around the corner from our destination.  The elusive north-western sun is out, warm and comforting on my shoulders as we walk to the shop, but it's doing nothing to soothe the fizzing in my bloodstream.  It feels like someone poured pop-rocks into my veins,  a sensation which is, perhaps understandably, not helping my nerves.

We walk in, Nathan full of confidence, me full of shy supplication for gods that are not yet my own.  This is a Him Place, the same way that a rock gym is a Me Place.  My husband knows he has every right to be here- more right, perhaps, that some of the salespeople- and he immediately glides off to track down our quarry.  I, on the other hand, approach one of the salespeople, who greats me with a polite smile and a, "Is there anything I can help you find?"

"I'm looking for a Taylor GS Mini," I say, hoping I've said it right and not like a tool; hoping that he can't hear the shake in my voice.  The man's smile turns into a grin, and he gestures with his chin to my husband across the room.

"Looks like he's already found it for you,"

A familiar chord progression reaches my ears, and I see that yes, of course Nathan has already found it.  He's strumming the spruce-top, but that's alright because I've had my eye on the mahogany top, anyway.

The guitar settles into my arms as though made for me, her curves matching mine, her neck obligingly slender beneath my smaller hands.  We are a small and quiet counterpoint to Nathan's bold declarations of mastery: an unusual role for me, but not unpleasant.

An hour later I am torn between the mahogany and the spruce.  I prefer the warmer, quieter tone of the mahogany- I think it's better suited for my style- but aesthetically speaking the spruce is a prettier instrument.  And I do like the bright shimmer she brings to the upper range.  In the end I flip a coin, to make sure of what I've already decided.  It comes up heads and I smile: mahogany is confirmed, golden tone winning out over visual appeal.

The salesman starts to offer me the display guitar, but Nathan intervenes.  "Do you have any others?" he asks.

"Sure," says the man.  "But they're still in boxes in the back."

"Do you want one no one else has played?"  Nathan asks me.

"Yes please," I say, secretly thrilling at him acting the protector.  "Plus I think it would be fun to unbox her."

"No problem," says the salesman, and disappears.

When we get home I slice open the box, remove the packaging, and draw out the padded case that holds my new instrument.  I lay it down carefully, unzip it...

And we both gasp.

She is beautiful.

Both examples of the mahogany top that we'd seen before now were a warm but dull brown, uniform in shade and utterly unremarkable in appearance.  They looked so plain that it hurt a little part of my artist's sole.  But this gorgeous girl has iridescent stripes of honey and amber, like a tiger's eye.

"Oh wow," says Nathan, voice reverent.

I draw her out of the case and cradle her to my heart, feeling as though my novitiate faith has been rewarded.

I am calling her Brindle Honey, and she is Mine.