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To Eddie Vedder, it was the furthest thing from a date.
The corners of the musty garage were lined with mold, and the air was ripe with the stench of dried leaves.
To Chris Cornell, it was the perfect backdrop for his mischievous plan.
He could maneuver his way around the musical world like a snake. He knew exactly the perfect method to strike.
"That's not how I would play that chord," Chris said, intently watching Eddie's every movement. "Let me show you the correct fingering."
And so, Chris stripped off his guitar and approached Eddie from behind. He slipped his arms under the other guitarist's, clasping his hands in his own.
Chris's mind shifted from repositioning Eddie's hands to committing the digits to memory: the roughness of his calluses, the intricacies of his fingerprints, and, most of all, the infinite warmth they supplied.
The lesson was going nowhere, like a derailed train.
The significance spiraled downward into nothingness.
The warmth was ill-fitted, preferably provided by Chris's wife instead of his bandmate.
Eddie was staring at Chris, not with reciprocated affection, but with a look of confusion.
The delusion of infatuation, like a make-believe story fated to never have existed.