# Writing > Short Story Sharing >  La Guitarre

## sjsuismylife

The stunned crowd at the Peach St. Coffee House stared at Peter as he once again swallowed the urge to vomit. He had just played his newly acquired classical Spanish guitar during the second act of the Saturday night open mic show, and nobody in the room was quite sure what to make of what they had just heard. The bones in his forearms were freshly stricken tuning forks, the worst of the vibration radiating from his fingers. Looking down at his spasmodic hands, he saw several small cuts on the tips of his fingers; the skin had been intact just minutes before. A few small droplets of blood fell from his fingertips, and spattered on the wooden parquet floor. Suddenly, he realized that the old man whom he had met at the flea market earlier that day had not been joking. No, Guillermo had not been pulling his leg when he said that everybody who Peter cared about would suffer. With unwavering certainty, he knew that the guitar which he held in his quivering grip was the vessel of a powerfully evil curse. His friends would turn against him. Beyond any doubt, he realized that his future children would bear his burden. Peter knew that the curse was inevadable. That was, unless he made the right decision soon.

A drop of feverish sweat collected on his chin, swelling as it was fed by a stream of tears from his left eye. As the drop fell through the hushed air, time slowed as it tends to do during times of great stress and tragedy. As Peter focused on the slowly quivering drop, he fantasized about smashing the guitar on the blood stained floor. Looking out into the quietly shocked audience, he tried to remember who had waved their Bic in the air during Cynthia's moving rendition of "Let it Be" ,she had played it on the coffee house's piano during opening act of the night. Smiling subtly, he imagined himself rushing into the crowd, wrenching a lighter from one of the stoners, and using it to set his guitar ablaze, as Hendrix had done some 35 years hence. The fantasy faded as the salty drop hit the ground, diluting the still wet splatter of blood that it met. Peter held the still intact and fully playable antique Spanish guitar on his lap. This was the time for him to make his move, as somebody eventually would awkwardly usher him off of the stage. Although the crowd wanted more, they had been too stunned to give a standing ovation, much less applaud. Peter decided to stand up and leave the stage on his own, and rid the world of the accursed instrument. Before he stood, however, he heard a familiar voice in his head, whispering from inside his ear. Peter closed his eyes, trying in vain to ignore what it had to say. 

The Saturday morning Pinehurst flea market had become a weekly tradition for Peter. Since the beginning of the year, he had been collecting LP's, and Pinehurst was the best place to find them. Only open from ten to four, the flea market moonlighted as the area's last remaining drive-in theater. The tall, dusty screen behind Bob's Record Emporium displayed the yellowed crust of old age during daylight hours. Peter had seen his first movie on that same screen as a child of five, shedding sympathetic tears for a young boy named Elliot and his departing friend. Walking into the emporium, which was really just a glorified tent, Peter said his usual, "Hello" to Bob, and started rummaging through the rock music section. Bob was a vinyl dealer, not a vinyl collector, which essentially meant that he didn't know the true value of his own stock. He just bought and sold old records on the weekends for what he called his, "Don't tell my wife about it" fund. While visiting Bob two weeks prior, Peter had found an original pressing of David Bowie's "Hunky Dory", a rare disc that had eluded him for months. Bob had naively sold it to him for five dollars. There were two other vinyl stores at Pinehurst, The Record Shack and Cool Grooves, but Peter liked Bob's the best. Like Bob, he also was not a vinyl collector. Peter bought LP's with a sense of nostalgia, and for the rich, warm sound quality that vinyl offered. Never had he purchased a record because of its rarity, or for its monetary value. He flipped through the classic rock box, not liking any record that he saw, until he saw her. She was blonde, her face half covered by a bouquet of flowers. Above all others, hers was the album he had been searching for in vain. "I've finally found you" he said to the smiling woman painted onto the cover of the LP jacket. He had heard her song for the first time sitting in his bedroom, ten months prior. 

In his memory, the June sun warmed a small misshapen square of the floor of Peter's room. His old purple second-hand boom box sat on the windowsill, tuned in to KZOK, "Seattle's only classic rock station". Drifting into a carless summer sleep, his dreams were scored by the likes of Boston and Lynard Skynnard. He suddenly awoke to the sound of a majestic piano. Sitting up, he leaned over to turn up the radio's volume, and closed his eyes. The lone piano sang a story of hope, flowing above an undercurrent of sweet sadness. Suddenly, a guitar began to play some of the most beautiful notes that Peter had ever heard. The guitar and piano seemed to soar together, two streams of sound; both at the end of a lifelong search for a soul mate. That very moment, he decided that he would learn to play the guitar, and be a guitarist until the day he died. In his mind, he was already a virtuoso, only deficient in practice and experience. He waited until the end of the song to discover the name of his newfound favorite band, but a commercial for a local hydroponics store stole his chance. As he wondered how any shop that sold Marijuana growing paraphernalia could legally stay in business, he hunted for his cordless phone. Upon finding it, Peter dialed 555-KZOK, the station's request line, and asked the person who had answered which artist played the last song. "Layla by Derek and the Dominoes", said the KZOK intern, who was apparently astonished that there were still people in the world that did not know about the greatness of Eric Clapton. That minute, Peter rushed to his local music store and bought the CD "Layla and other love songs" A blonde woman had smiled at him on the CD cover, her face obscured by flowers. 

Under the canvas roof of Bob's Record Emporium, Peter's search had finally ended. The album that began his interest in music lay between his careful fingers. A few scuffs marred the cover, but the record's jacket was generally in good shape. Pulling out the disc, Peter readied himself for the myriad of scratches that usually accompanied a rare LP find. It was Peter's usual luck to find an album that he really wanted, only for it to pop and hiss when played on his turntable. Like a black sunrise, the disc emerged from its paper sleeve unscarred. Apart from a few small hairs and specs of dust, the record was in near mint condition. Somebody had lovingly played it, and had kept it safe in its protective paper sleeve. Peter smiled and promised himself that he would continue the tradition of conserving Layla's beauty. He brought his newly discovered treasure up to the counter and handed it to Bob. "Clapton is the man, and this little lady will cost you..." Bob paused in careful consideration, "... three dollars, because you are such a regular". Peter gave Bob his last fiver, pocketed the change, took the bag holding his new record, thanked him and left the emporium. 

Walking along the rows of merchants, Peter became lost in his own memory. The last year had seen many changes in his life. In January, he had decided to start college and pursue a degree in music. It was his desire to one day become a music teacher, and to impart his sudden and passionate love of music to as many children as he could. He had also started to compose music, albeit solely in his own mind. Music theory and notation were far beyond his grasp, but he had written many musical movements, storing them in his memory. When overstressed with schoolwork, he would sometimes retreat into the theater of his thoughts, adding to his composition, changing it slightly to fit his current mood. It had become something of a theatrical score for the story of his life. Sadly, since he couldn't sing or play any instruments with enough proficiency to express the complexity of his mental symphony, the music remained trapped in his imagination. Three months prior, he had begun taking music lessons using his roommates acoustic guitar, but he only knew a few simple songs. He was planning to make his first public appearance playing his guitar and singing such a song that very night. The Peach St. Coffee House held an amateur night of sorts every Saturday night, and every Saturday night Peter went there to hear Cynthia sing.

When Peter listened to the piano and guitar outro of "Layla", he imagined soaring along with Cynthia. The idea of her hand in his felt about as right as a piano and guitar flowing harmoniously out of his old boom box. Cynthia had long beautiful chestnut hair, and a voice that could captivate the usually noisy crowd at Peach St, holding their silence and unwavering attention between fingertips and ivory keys. Peter had been writing his own special song for her, his Cynthia to Clapton's Layla. Of all of his secret melodies, Cynthia's was his most cherished his most emotive. He wanted nothing more than to play it for her, but realized that it would take years of practice before he could faithfully reproduce on the guitar what he heard in his head, and felt in his heart. Captive to his thoughts, Peter had wandered to the far edge of the market where the sophistication of tented and canopied shops had given way to a community of homeless yard sales. Out on the perimeter, people sold their wares on old blankets and second hand carpeting. Pirated DVDs, broken coffee makers and second hand clothing were commonplace in the Pinehurst outlands, the primary reason that Peter rarely came to these parts. Turning back toward the exit, he heard the soft strumming of an acoustic guitar, its tone warm like the voice of an old folksinger.

Peter followed the sound to an old man sitting on a wicker chair in the middle of a powder blue blanket. Two card tables held the blanket down on opposing corners, each covered with random unsellables. A driftwood clock sat propped up on an avocado green fondue pot. The clock's brass hands, which had probably stood frozen since the year of Peter's birth, were about an hour and a half away from their twice daily moment of accuracy. Paperbacks littered the other table, most of them stripped of their cover. In the middle, the old Mexican man sat in his chair, lightly strumming what was probably the oldest guitar Peter had ever seen. "You jus gonna stan there guero, or you gonna buy somethin?" the old man asked. Peter hadn't noticed that he had been staring at the man for several moments, entranced by the hollow tone of the guitar's strings. "You lookin' at me guitarre" said the old man, his slightly crooked eyes smiling above a long, white, wiry handle bar mustache. "Yeah; are you selling it?" Peter anxiously asked. The chuckle that suddenly erupted from a wide grin beneath the man's ridiculous mustache seemed genuine in its condescending tone. "You're not ready for this guitar guero, you're not ready for that kind of responsibility" the old man told Peter. Warm blood rushed to Peters temples, and reminded him that he didn't put up with this kind of patronizing ****. "Not ready?" Peter asked in confused annoyance; "How would you know if I'm ready to play your old beat up guitar, and what does that even mean?" Peter asked, the tone of his voice rising by the second. "Okay, okay guero, I'm just messing witch ya; Here, play it" the old man said, handing Peter the guitar. 

Gingerly, Peter held the centuries old instrument in his hands. He envisioned dropping the guitar, and seeing it dissolve into a pile of strings and sawdust. He made sure that his grip on the guitar was true. Mostly all of the paint had been worn off from countless years of play. Right beneath the sound hole, a billion strums had burrowed a hole through the wood. The tuning keys, which held the strings to their correct pitch, were carved from ivory; their yellow color matching the shade of the old man's teeth. Forming a G chord, Peter strummed the guitar, and instantly fell in love. Each string sang out, warm and clear. When combined, all of the notes of the strum wove musical fabric, soothing Peter's ears. He knew it was the guitar on which he would play his masterpiece; if only he could coax the notes out from his mind and teach them to his fingers. Peter knew it would take years of practice and dedication to get to that point, but he had found the guitar to take along with him on that journey. He turned to the old man, realizing that he had not gotten his name. "What was your name" Peter asked. "Guillermo", the old man replied. "Hey Guillermo, I'm Peter. What's the price for the guitar?" Peter said. "It costs fifty dollars.... in money, that is" Guillermo said, a creepy chuckle sneaking into the end of his comment. "Fifty bucks is the price, but the cost is so much more." Guillermo whispered loudly enough for Peter to clearly overhear. Peter felt that Guillermo was messing with him, and he was beginning to become annoyed a second time. "What the hell are you blathering about, old man?" Peter asked in a raised voice. Do you want to sell me the guitar or not"? Guillermo's smile lessened and his laugh quieted. "I'm sorry guero, it's just that I have to tell you about the curse that comes along with that guitar, my conscience compels me to." Guillermo was still slightly grinning, and Peter's confusion deepened. 

"Apparently my great, great grandfather Santiago was less than faithful." Guillermo said, as he stared at the evergreens which grew behind the drive-in. He bought that guitar when he was young, and carried it wherever he went. He played it all the time and became a famous Flamenco player, traveling all over Mexico playing his music for the people. He brought his wife Corina and their baby boy, Fernando along with him wherever he went. As Santiago became more and more popular, his desire for fame and women became greater than his love for his family. Corina finally had become tired of his cheating; she decided to take their son and leave. The night before she left, she took Santiago's guitar. It was the night of one of his biggest performances, and Santiago was filled with rage as he searched all over his house for it. He found Corina, accusing her of taking the guitar. He was furious, because in his mind, she was trying to destroy his life, his reputation. 'I was just preparing your guitar for the most important performance of your life. I had the finest luthier in Mexico clean and tune it up for you.' Corina said, a simple smile on her face. That night Santiago played the best concert of his life, the crowd standing up and cheering three times after his last song. Upon returning to his home, expecting dinner to be made, he found a note on the kitchen table. It told Santiago that Corina had left with their son, never to return. She had wished him a prosperous and happy life of fame and fortune, since those things were more important than a loving family."

"That's pretty sad" Peter said, interrupting the story, hoping to be able to leave soon with his new guitar. "I'm not even finished; you haven't heard the worst part. After Corina left, Santiago's success grew. He got more and more fans, but something wasn't right. The people who were close to him began to have bad luck. The women whom he attracted with his fame and money began to become sick, some of them even dying horrible deaths. One was trampled by a team of horses pulling her own carriage. Another died choking on a sunflower seed because her throat swelled shut. It was a freak accident. Everybody that surrounded Santiago began to die off more and more. After a while, nobody wanted to be around him because they were afraid of certain death. Santiago became very sad and lonely, he finally took his own life; his servant found him hanging by the neck in his own stable. Nobody knew why Santiago had such rotten luck, but within my family, the story was that on that night, of his big concert, Corina had taken the guitar to a woman who practiced evil magic. She had the guitar cursed to repay all of the pain he had given her. Since then, as the guitar has been passed down though my family, everybody who has owned it hasn't had the best fortune." Guillermo said, looking into Peter's eyes; the smile absent from his face. "Well, what about you, don't you own it now? Arent you cursed?" Peter asked with a sarcastic chuckle. "Nah, it belonged to my uncle, but he's dead now. I'm just getting rid of it for my aunt." Guillermo replied. 

Eager to buy it, Peter asked Guillermo if he took credit cards. "What do I look like guero, an ATM? I only deal in cash." Guillermo replied with a bitter laugh, his thumb rubbing his forefingers. "Can you hold that for me? I'll be right back with the money." Peter asked with a sense of increasing urgency. Guillermo said, "You had better hurry guero, another gringo was here about ten minutes before you, the yuppie bastard tried to give me a MasterCard too. He was off to the bank, and he's probably on his way back right now. That sparkle you had in your eye for my uncle's guitar, his eye had the same sparkle." Peter panicked at the thought that he might lose the guitar, he just had to have it. With only two dollars in his pocket, he knew that there was no way to get to his bank, or even an ATM in time. He wished that he could at least make it back to his house, he could sell some of his records, but he was losing more time by the second. The thought of records stopped the train of his frantic thought, giving him a dark idea. "I'll have fifty dollars back here in five minutes, promise me that you will hold that guitar" Peter desperately implored. "Clock's ticking guero" Guillermo said as he pointed to the long dead driftwood clock. Slightly unnerved, Peter took off sprinting in the direction of Bob's Record Emporium. 

Peter tried to calm his breathing as he flipped through the albums in the classic rock section of Bobs emporium. His eyebrow had begun its rhythmic twitch, a tick that plagued him when he was nervous. He looked from under his twitching brow toward Bob, who was at the front desk reading a newspaper. He was nearing the end of the box, and the end of his courage, when he saw the banana that he was looking for. Andy Warhol by The Velvet Underground & Nico was an album that Peter had never given a listen. He was not a fan of "The Underground", as his older brother had called them. Peter's older brother Nathan listened to obscure bands such as "The Smiths" and "The Buzzcocks". If The Velvet underground sounded anything like the other bands that Nathan listened to, Peter wouldn't be a fan. Standing in Bob's Record Emporium, contemplating his past was wasting Peter precious time. "Go ahead and take it, Bob doesn't know what he has; He doesn't deserve to keep it." a voice whispered inside Peter's head. It was the voice that stepped in when Peter's conscience was on a break. It was the voice of convenient justification that helped Peter to do things that he knew were wrong. He hastily pulled the record from its sleeve, the mint condition vinyl the color of a banana Now&Later. This rare edition would fetch Peter at least fifty bucks over at Cool Grooves, where the owner knew the value of his stock. Unfortunately, the price was fifteen dollars. Peter was twelve dollars short, and Bob was like Guillermo, he didn't take plastic. In his heart, Peter made the decision to steal the record at the same instant that a hand clamped down onto his shoulder. 

Whether it was the breath running from his lungs, or the blood escaping from his heart, Peter suddenly felt dread fill his soul. "I need you to watch the store for me while I go and 'dehydrate the gecko' if you know what I mean." Bob chuckled, apparently Peter had been so focused on his plan to steal the record that he hadn't noticed Bob come up behind him. "Sure, you can trust me." Peter calmly lied. Bob walked out of the tent, leaving Peter alone. Nobody else was in the store. Peter looked around for potential witnesses, only finding one; A little girl in the next tent holding an old shopworn teddy bear. "Please can I keep him mom? I'm gonna call him Mr. Fluffy, and I'm gonna love him forever" the little girl said as she hugged the bear. "Ok Sally, but make sure to keep him in your back pack so you don't lose him" Sally's mom replied. Since nobody, not even Sally, was watching him, Peter slipped the Velvet Underground LP into his bag, next to Layla. Bob wouldn't miss it, and Peter would slip him an extra fifteen bucks the next chance he got. 

Running back to Guillermo with the fifty dollars that Sam at Cool Grooves had given him for the banana album, Peter prayed that the guitar would still be there. Rounding the corner, he saw Guillermo packing his remaining wares into an old canvas sack. "I have the money! I have the money" Don't go, do you still have it?" Peter shouted, enveloped in desperation. "You made it guero" Guillermo said, holding the guitar by the neck. Peter's heart flooded with relief as he gave his money to the old man and claimed his ultimate flea market find. "Congratulations, the curse is yours." Guillermo said, with a grand sweep of his arm. "Ah, you don't believe in that ****" Guillermo laughed loudly. "No." Peter seriously replied. He had had enough of the old man's joking. Peter just wanted to get home to prepare for open mic night at the Peach Street. He said goodbye to the old man for the first, and last time, and left the market. 

Sabrina nudged past Peter, carrying a tray of drinks towards table seven. Peter was sitting in a small wooden chair in the backstage area at the Cherry St. Coffee house. Looking around, he laughed at the notion that anybody would call the tiny area a backstage. The stage was merely a corner of the coffee shop, cleared of excess tables and chairs. He was waiting in an area roughly the size of his closet, nestled in between a Japanese wardrobe screen and the wall next to the kitchen entrance. Despite its humble atmosphere, the coffee shop would provide the venue for the realization of a long awaited dream come true. 

Peter could smell the double Cappuccinos on Sabrinas platter as they momentarily hovered over his head. He was thankful for Sabrinas steady arm, which held the platter of steaming hot coffee with grace and certainty as it traveled over Peters upturned face. He was also thankful that his own double cappuccino had been decaffeinated. It was bad enough that he was making his musical debut on amateur night, having never played his guitar front of another human being. He didnt need the added palsy of a caffeine overload; his overactive nerves provided enough of their own jitters, including the one over his left eye. Sensing his anxiety, Sabrina paused and turned toward him saying, Dont worry honey, youll do great. Ill be right out there, cheering you on. Peter offered his best half smile and thanked her. Peter figured that her warmth and friendliness she was the real reason that Cherry Street was so successful, even though the coffee was the best in the city. 

On stage, Cynthia was in the middle of a soulful rendition of Let it be. It was instantly Peters favorite version of the song. Her voice flowed out above the swaying lighters of the amateur night crowd like a velvet ribbon, blending sublimely with her soft piano, soothing Peters anxious mind. Listening with his eyes closed, Peter decided that he could listen to her voice for the rest of his life and never grow tired of it. Two months prior was the first time he had seen her. She had sung Across the Universe, casting a trance of wonder over the crowded audience. He could appreciate a woman with an appreciation for good music, especially the Beatles. Peter had chosen a selection by the Fab Four for his first Amateur night performance. He practiced it over and over, using his roommates acoustic, but now he had a new guitar of his own. Youve Got to Hide Your Love Away, was the song he had chosen, being a huge fan of the Beatles himself. 

Cynthia finished amid thunderous applause, opening the stage for Peter's big moment. He warily stepped onto the stage, holding his guitar to his chest as a makeshift shield. He sat in the chair, and suddenly noticed how many people were in the crowd. Cynthia had packed the house, and now Peter had to follow her act with his first ever public performance. His heart began to race, until he saw Sabrina smile and blow him a kiss. The smile calmed his nerves, and gave him the courage to continue. "This is my first open mic night." Peter shyly said. "And I'm going to play a song by a band that needs no introduction. Hope you like it." Peter said, as he sat his new guitar on his lap. He closed his eyes and concentrated on forming a D chord, the chord he had practiced again and again on his roommates borrowed guitar. He envisioned a triangle, the shape his fingers fell into when forming a D. The sound that came from his guitar when he strummed, however, was not the sound of a D chord, but that of the E minor. Confused, Peter looked down at his left hand. 

Suddenly, the fingers in both of his hands twitched simultaneously, jumping into a life of their own. The pick in Peter's right fell to the floor as his fingers involuntarily cast it away. Peter's right arm lurched forward of its own accord, placing his strumming hand into a finger picking position. These motions happened so quickly that Peter sat in stunned, surprised silence as his twitching fingers began playing music that he had never heard before. Automatic flamenco music, more advanced than any Peter had heard, effortlessly poured from his guitar. The feeling of involuntary twitching within Peter's hands elevated to the sensation of being controlled by a marionette master from the inside of his nerves and tendons. Somebody else was in his body, manipulating the strings. Peter was sitting on stage at the Peach Tree, but he realized that Santiago was the one giving the show that night. The realization that Peter wasn't the one behind his own wheel made him throw up in his mouth. After the initial shock of being possessed wore off, he tried to gain control of his body. He tried to will his hands to let go of the guitar, but Santiago wasn't having it. You want my guitarre guero, you have to let me play it sometimes." Santiago growled from inside Peter's head. Santiago used Peter's hands to flow over the fret board, picking diminished runs, rife with inverted triads that Peter had never learned. To keep from vomiting a second time, Peter looked across the astonished audience. His eyes fell on Cynthia, who was smiling the most wonderful smile that Peter had ever seen. He concentrated on her face, looking at her warm smile. After a few eternal seconds, his heart began to calm. Seeing her made the awful experience of possession a fractional bit less unbearable. At that moment, a strange thing happened. It seemed as if Peter had regained control of his fingers, although he was still playing far beyond his ability. It almost sounded as if the last three notes of Santiago's song drifted into Peter's composition "Cynthia."

After several moments of weakened silence, Peter gathered enough strength to stand. No matter how much of a virtuoso the guitar made him, he knew that it must be destroyed. It was the most evil thing he had ever encountered. He was about ready to get up when a familiar voice whispered from inside his ear. You know what happened, you controlled it. You have been waiting for this moment your whole life. Play it, you know which one I mean. That old man didn't know what he was talking about. Do it. You won't lose control again" Peter sat in the chair, unsure what to do. He wasn't sure if the voice in his head belonged to himself or to Santiago. He could still feel the residue of evil, the palpable aura of the curse, emanating from the guitar. George, the owner of the Peach Street Coffee House, came up behind Peter, bending down to check on him. "You ok son?" George asked. "Yes, I'm ok." Peter said. "Alright, the next act tonight is... " George announced, but Peter cut him off mid sentence. "Wait, can I play one more song?" he asked the audience. The crowd suddenly remembered how to cheer, jumping to their feet in applause. "This next song is one I have been working on for a while." Peter told the audience. "It's dedicated to Cynthia."

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## sjsuismylife

Please feel free to comment, criticism welcomed

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## sjsuismylife

double post

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## Dinkleberry2010

I really liked this story up to the end--it is well-written and imaginative and original, but I was left confused by the ending. The last sentence lost me. I don't understand it at all.

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## sjsuismylife

Thanks for the post. I know that sometimes I write ambiguously, and the ending to this story fits in with that style. Earlier in the story, I described how Peter wrote songs in his mind, but was unable to express them, or "get them out of his head", because he wasn't a good enough guitar player or singer. 

He wanted to be able to play the song he had been writing for Cynthia, to Cynthia. When he realized at the end of the story that he began to be able to control his new curse/ability, he used that ability to play Cynthia's song for her, the song that had been previously locked inside his head. I want to be able to imply certain things as a writer without coming right out and saying them, but apparently I need more practice. It does help having an outside opinion such as yours, because I am oblivious to the fact that I can sometimes be vague, such as with the case of this ending. 

Glad you liked it and commented.

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## Dinkleberry2010

Thank you, sjsuismylife, for clearing up the thing about Cynthia. It clarified the last line for me and made me understand.

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