Write four lines of prose about: the guitar.
One of the strings on Kat's guitar broke a while back and it's been sitting in its case waiting for repairs ever since. So I decided I'd get it fixed for her birthday surprise.
I found someone in town who would do it on Monday. Took the guitar out to the car after Kat went to sleep Monday night. Dropped it off on Tuesday (while telling Kat I was up to something else entirely). Picked it up on Wednesday after I got off work (while telling Kat that I was still at work). Got it out of the trunk of the car Wednesday night after Kat went to sleep and returned it to its case. Spent Thursday trying to convince myself that she had no reason whatsoever to open up that case.
Made it to this morning without any suspicions being raised.
Max and I sang Happy Birthday to her this morning before I had to go to work. But we needed instruments, so he got a drum and his ukulele and a shaker out of his room. But it was missing something, you know?
Like maybe Kat's guitar, so that she could accompany us.
She was very pleased with her birthday surprise.
It sits, protected and unblemished, in a glass display case which hangs on a living room wall. A tiny spotlight shines on it at night, so that he can look at it without any of the surrounding distractions getting in the way.
He spends most nights admiring it, more often than not with a whiskey in hand, clinking the ice cubes together and reminiscing.
He was never in a band - never even played the damned thing, actually - but there's no convincing the old man of that, now is there?