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"Fucking piece of shit."
Exasperated, Cesare bites his lower lip, jamming one finger underneath the bridge, thumb still trying to secure the stubborn length of gut. It's taken him over two months to secure Aquila loaded gut, the type everybody's told him is out of production and impossible to find, and now his fingers can't remember what to do.
Was a time he could do this blind, without looking, with the same ease as tying up his sleeves. Now he's cradling the lute between lap and knee, bends over the ribs, squints, and sucks in a breath. Finally, he manages to loop the last string around itself before pulling it snug against the saddle.
"Ben', puta," he coos. "You up for some Bach?"
Exasperated, Cesare bites his lower lip, jamming one finger underneath the bridge, thumb still trying to secure the stubborn length of gut. It's taken him over two months to secure Aquila loaded gut, the type everybody's told him is out of production and impossible to find, and now his fingers can't remember what to do.
Was a time he could do this blind, without looking, with the same ease as tying up his sleeves. Now he's cradling the lute between lap and knee, bends over the ribs, squints, and sucks in a breath. Finally, he manages to loop the last string around itself before pulling it snug against the saddle.
"Ben', puta," he coos. "You up for some Bach?"