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One of the reporters coughed in embarassment, trying to smile at the old man at the same time. "Maybe they printed the wrong time?" Her voice resounded perfectly in the old theater. Dust hung in the spotlight and drifted lazily across its warm glow toward her companion who sat in the opposite seat across the aisle and thumbed a gash in the old maroon seat. "Should we wait?" She asked with no answer, only glancing momentarily at the old man on stage who seemed far too content with the taste of his cigarette. His eyes were glazed over and aged to the extent that even when he glanced at you it didn't seem he saw anything. A permanent smile parted his lips, but there was some confusion over whether it was a smile or simply the shape of his face. He matched the theater with his black and maroon flannel, the decrepit chair he sat upon which squeeled whenever he moved and the thin tuft of hair in disaray on the left side of his head.
"No, no one is coming." His voice seemed unusually taut for the creature it ventured out of. "We came," She started twice nervously wishing to console the old man, "We have questions." Her colleague across the ailse seemed to realize he had lost himself and immediately looked at his watch. "Not to rush things, but no one else is coming, and I need to leave soon." The old man smoked slowly, seeming to relish his position on stage.
"So ask."
"Well, we only had three questions. Firstly who was your greatest inspiration?"
"Excuse me?"
"All right, secondly what are your plans for the future?"
"To love my wife."
"Isn't she dead?"
"All right, third I would," The old man interrupted him with a feeble wave.
"You already asked three."
"Fine, I am done, come on." He said turning to his companion across the aisle. He stood and stared intently at her as she stayed seated.
"Sir, is it possible for us to hear you play?" The old man dropped his cigarette and put it out with his shoe. A dazed look tormented his face and caused the old man to continuously glance at the impatient man, hoping he would win out against her request but they ended only watching him in silence for several minutes.
"If you must." The old man said standing. He moved slowly across the stage which echoed with the sound of his shoes. From the side of the stage he produced an ancient looking black guitar which had been with him since his childhood. Despite its tortured exterior the guitar had a seductive look to it, an instrument which had consumed this man's entire life and embodied his soul since his childhood, a succubi which had captured his talent and abused it throughout the years now commanded respect from the two others present.
The old man sat back down on his chair and seemed again to contemplate, but now glancing only at the guitar. His fingers molested its body with their omnipotent presence, the strings seemed to move not by his strum but by his wish alone. Their vibration had filled the ears and hearts of thousands, they had witnessed death and life, the corruption of the human soul and ultimately they were doomed to a dilapidated music hall west of a city of the bromidic and uninspired.
He stopped halfway through his musical diatribe and destroyed his guitar, the two reporters were shocked enough to stand but soon sat down again. They had grown grey with anticipation and now blood flooded back upon their brains bombarding them with emotion. They had known beauty and had lost it, they understood as the old man wept for his dead wife for the first time.
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