Guitar

I raise the cigarette to my lips slowly. I am sitting in the park on a bench under a tree. It’s raining, but I’m sheltered for the most part by the tree. Every now and then a cold wet drop hits me and I shiver.1

I’m still here, even though I’m late for work, and it’s getting colder by the minute. I can’t help myself. 2

He’s still playing his guitar.3

He comes here for the same reason as me. That’s what I like to think anyway. This park is cool and dark thanks to the large number of trees that line the walking trails. There is even a small stream that runs through the middle of the greenery. It’s quiet, not a lot of people come here. They prefer the brighter, play-gym blessed park on the other side of the city. 4

It’s like an oasis within the chaos of the city. I smile at my silliness as I hear him start to sing over the sound of the rain falling. The raindrops hitting the earth almost sound like background music for his song. I close my eyes and listen for a moment longer, finishing the cigarette. I imagine I can hear drums and a bass line. I am fully aware I am letting my imagination get the best of me. It seems I always do that at one time or the other, but I can never bring myself to care when it concerns him.5

His voice is so pretty I regret not ever speaking to him, even though we are both here almost every day, sitting yards from each other. I’ve never heard his voice unless it was in song, here in the park. I open my eyes, catching a glimpse of him looking back at me before he looks away again, never pausing, never missing a note.6

The rain becomes harder suddenly, and he pauses to back up closer to the tree trunk he’s sitting under. He just gets started again when a gust of wind brings a sheet of rain in on him and his guitar. He cries out, that even sounds musical to me, and scrambles to wipe away the moisture from the instrument with the ends of his shirt.7

He seems to cherish that guitar above all else. I’ve seen him come here before and practice with it until he fell asleep, clutching the neck of the instrument, like he must have a stuffed toy when he was a baby. 8

He replaces it in the case, and snaps it closed. The sound is harsh and seems to bring about the roll of thunder afterward that shakes the ground. He then picks it up and looks around. He looks lost for a moment. Then he catches sight of me, smiles brightly and waves. 9

I do not return the smile, but I do throw up my hand in greeting just before he runs off as fast as he can, case clutched tightly in hand, towards what I assume to be home. It’s still raining, though not as hard as before. 10

I leave myself. After all, the only reason I come here is to watch a beautiful, mysterious soul reflect on himself for a moment. 11

I like to think we both come here for the same reason.12

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Comments always appreciated! 14