She watched somewhat wistfully as the smoke disappeared – the cigarette remained between her fingers and she took another drag. She closed her eyes and savored the momentary buzz that enveloped her.

In the dimly lit room, her nude body glowed. It was at once that the line was drawn between the naked body and the nude form. For to be nude was an art – of which she was a master basking in all her feminine glory, and to be naked was to be exposed, feeble and simple – dreadfully common.

Light wisps of smoke billowed around her hair like an ethereal halo, as she reached for the shirt on the bedpost. A purple Fender lay in an open case, the only witness to the quaking bodies and whispered nothings.

The echo of the sliding door filled the room as he stepped out of the shower – long hair tousled and a towel around his waist. She tossed him the pack of cigarettes as she made her way into the shower, subtly sashaying as she passed him, running a finger across his heavily tattooed torso and planting a peck on his cheek.

He would never remember – even on his deathbed – the nights they spent that inspired the rhythms that shocked and excited the world. He would never remember as he strummed, plucked, and swung his guitar on stage, the woman that roused his genius – time after time.

For she was just another starry-eyed groupie in the vast sea of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll.

Cover image by Krzysztof Hepner on Unsplash.  The copyright of this piece belongs to the author of this literary work.  

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