Total pages in book: 196
Estimated words: 188002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 940(@200wpm)___ 752(@250wpm)___ 627(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 940(@200wpm)___ 752(@250wpm)___ 627(@300wpm)
Oh. I’ve never talked to a homeless person. Seen them around, yes. Talked to one? No. Another shiver shoots up my spine. Crossing my arms tighter around my torso, I lean against the railing, squashing my purse so he can’t grab it. He probably needs money to eat, or he could be a junkie needing a fix. Screw the rain and frizzy hair, I should make a run for it now before—
“This is one of the nicest towns I’ve been in.” His voice interrupts my racing thoughts. “The people are friendly. They don’t treat me like trash.” He exhales a cloud of smoke and snuffs the half-smoked cigarette out on the bottom of his leather shoe. I wait for him to toss the butt onto the grass, but instead he shoves it in his pocket.
A lump of guilt forms in my throat. I relax my arms as I raise my gaze to meet his. There’s no threat, no mania flickering in those eyes. I see blue—the color of the sky just before it turns to night, that subtle transition that marks one time of day to another. Perhaps his eyes are very telling, and he’s also in a transition of sorts, moving from one phase of life into another.
We watch the rain fall, waiting for it to stop, but I don’t really want it to. It’s soft and lulling and brings stillness with it. The park is empty, except for this homeless guy with the amazing eyes, his dog, and me. By the time the rain stops, I’m fifteen minutes late returning to work, but I’m in no rush to get back. Something about being with the quiet stranger is surprisingly comforting. We leave the gazebo together, his dog trailing behind us down the walkway that leads back to my bench, his guitar-playing spot, and the rusty wrought-iron entrance.
“Nothing more hopeful and beautiful than gray skies and rainbows,” he says as we walk.
I furrow my brow and wait in case he clarifies what he means. He takes his place against the brick wall, across from my bench. He sits on the wet ground and I wonder if rainwater seeping through his jeans will bother him or if he just deals with things like damp clothes. When he doesn’t say anything else, I give him a last look and head back toward my office without saying goodbye.
As I pass through the gate and wait to cross the busy street I see it—a rainbow arching across the cloudy sky. And he’s right. It’s beautiful and hopeful.
Chapter Two
The guitarist is here again today, and he smiles a hello when he sees me. I shyly return the smile and sit on my bench, pretending to busy myself with my plastic container of tossed salad. My focus is truly on the incredibly beautiful rendition of “Für Elise” that fills the air. He plays with so much depth and emotion, I get goosebumps as he plucks each note on his guitar.
Pop, rock, classical…. Is there anything this guy can’t play?
A man in a suit tosses a quarter into the Mason jar, and I want to shove his monogrammed black leather messenger bag up his ass. Does he not recognize beautiful music when he hears it? A quarter buys a piece of bubble gum or a ride on a rocking horse outside the grocery store. That won’t buy live classical music. Huffing, I spend the next minute trying to find my pink wallet, which is lost in the file cabinet of crap I call my purse.
I have a five-dollar bill and a twenty-dollar bill. Chewing my lip, I look over at the musician. I like looking at him, though he’s not my type. Not even a little bit. He looks like Jesus with his long hair and denim-blue eyes and that ethereal aura that bounces off him. I’m sure Jesus doesn’t look like a homeless street musician, but if he were to come down and be all sorts of cool, I could see him looking like that. People must flock to him in droves, especially women, because he’s got a strange sexual magnetism about him. The guitar guy, not Jesus.
I’ve still got my hand stuffed in my purse, and I’m holding the five and the twenty. Five bucks doesn’t seem like nearly enough to compensate for his talent. But giving him a twenty could be too much—I don’t want to look like a desperate person buying his attention. Or he might think I’m some spoiled rich girl throwing money at the poor, dirty, sexy homeless guy.
I feel I should give him something, though, since I’ve been sitting here for the past week enjoying his music, even though I try to act as though I don’t notice him and the fluid movement of his hands. And the way the feather blows against his cheek in the breeze. Or how his eyes track me when I enter the park. Or the way his eyelids close so very slowly when he’s completely into the song he’s playing. But just because I notice all those things doesn’t mean I’m into him in that way. Homeless men with feather earrings are of no interest to me. I just want to show my appreciation of his craft. A simple gesture of thanks can turn a person’s day around.