"What's wrong, Olivia?"

I'm pretty sure my voice is muffled from outside the door. Olivia has probably plugged in earphones, too. 

"Anti-Guitarist?" Olivia answers. It makes sense to call me that. I am an Anti. How do I tell her that I do not want another thread of relations to be cut off? 

Music seems like an equivalent to Slavery, right now. It kind of is. A slavemaster. Making people bound by the semibreves and quavers. Taking them away, leashed by a chain of musical notes.

Zachary.

"I don't really think you'd want to come in right now." Olivia's voice is firm. It's clear she's mad, but that's no surprise. She always is. "I'm just listening to-" She increases the volume of whatever device she is using until I can hear it clearly. 

Guitar. Sultans of Swing.

No. Not this one.

Please.

"-Oh, do your ears hurt?" She shouts.

They do. Please, Olivia.

I sigh. 

"Okay, Olivia."

"we'll go to the Instrumental shop. Now."