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“Come on, David. You can learn this.”
“I could, but should I? Do you really want this-“ He gestures up and down the sweater he has pulled on this morning, black in somehow four different ways, “-trying to produce any sort of music? You’ve heard my mother’s attempts to get me to sing at Christmas.”
“I swear, I could teach you in two hours. Tops. And then you can join in on open mic nights, it could be fun!”
“That is not the way to convince me, I can assure you,” he mutters sardonically, but prises the ukulele from Patrick’s grip regardless. He holds it the wrong way, and the strings ping dully under his touch, but it’s a start. There is an awkward, grimacing moment where man and ukulele battle for the last laugh, but then David is holding it in some vague semblance of upright.
“Okay,” Patrick laughs as he adjusts his elbows around the instrument. “First thing’s first, chords…”