Author's Note: For NaNoWriMo, my goal is not to write a novel, but instead, finish this shitshow (It's already the 10th, who am I kidding). That said…
The next afternoon, you find yourself leisurely ambling into the kitchen around one o' clock, having arisen on your own accord. You reach up into a cabinet in order to grip the cool surface of a glass, reaching your arm high above your head. The sensation is so glorious that you find yourself setting the cup on the counter with a quiet clink in order to stretch more thoroughly. After a moment of loosening your muscles and yawning profusely, you wrench open the refrigerator and pour yourself a midday glass of apple juice. You take it back into your room, setting it precariously on a bedpost in order to lift your prized possession from its place against your bookshelf: an old acoustic guitar. Every time you pick this thing up, you feel the need to dust it off, despite the fact that you keep it meticulously clean. It's in quite a state, polish chipping away from years of practice, street performances, and angry venting sessions. However, the tone of the instrument remains deep, soothing, and echoing, like a wise old creature with many secrets.
You arrange yourself on the mattress and begin to pluck some strings lightly, letting the soft sound disperse through the air, disappearing into the tinted light filtering through the curtains. Every once in a while, you rest the ancient instrument on your lap in order to raise the glass of apple juice to your lips. The neighborhood is still and peaceful this afternoon. No cars honking on their way down the street, no FedEx delivery man loudly delivering packages. It's quiet in your apartment, with only the sound of your strumming to assure you that someone hasn't pressed mute on the world's remote.
Letting your fingers drift over the strings is calming and invigorating at the same time. Your gaze floats around the room, resting on various objects. A pile of dirty laundry in the corner, photographs pasted haphazardly to the far wall, the vintage Rubik's cube on your soundboard. You stop strumming for a moment, inspecting it from a distance, then lay your guitar on the bed and cross to the cube. When you pick it up, you have to blow a little dust off of the yellow face. It's been ages since you last solved it. You're sure you've forgotten how. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and you toss the cube onto your mattress as you hurry to get dressed.
Fifteen minutes later, you arrive in front of John's house, tires screeching. You quickly step off the bike and onto the pavement, rushing up to the door with the colorful cube in your hand. After ringing the doorbell, you anxiously rotate a face, encouraged to discover that it still turns smoothly. When John opens the door, his smile is so radiant that you're glad for your shades. You pass him the cube, and he looks at you quizzically.
"A puzzle, just like me," you say, delivering your line effortlessly. Smirking, you hop off the stoop and stride back to your bike. You try not to look back as you pedal off, but you can see John in your periphery, leaning against the door frame and smiling like a doofus.