Six Strings at the Bus Stop
A red cap, white headphones and an acoustic guitar — a brother playing to the traffic while the bus took its time.
Some stages come with lights and a sound system. This one had a bench, a timetable and a steady stream of cars. He had a guitar on his knee, a red cap turned backwards and nowhere he needed to be.
He played with his head down, listening to the strings more than to the street. Every so often a car slowed, a window came down, and someone nodded along for a few bars before the lights changed.
From across the pavement the shelter looked like a little theatre — autumn trees for a backdrop, a backpack at his feet, the afternoon sun doing the lighting.
Between songs he talked about the road, about the people he had met at this very stop, and about how a tune can make a stranger stay a little longer than they meant to.
The bus came, and he let it go. There would be another one. We left him tuning up for the next song, the red cap catching the last of the sun.
