Busker

Every guitar string holds an unsung secret. All it takes is subtle
coaxing from knowing fingers to evoke the nascent melodies held within.
The man had such fingers. They moved up and down his guitar's shaft
with furious speed, producing lightening rhythms that reached the
heavens. There was grime in his fingernails, and his shirtsleeves did
not quite reach his wrists, but every note he played was an expression
of pride.

Stephen watched him. He took in the greasy, mousy, dishevelled hair and
the sad smile in the high-pitched voice as it sang Eric Clapton's
"Layla" and felt a connection with the man. Call it a moment of
clarity, or an awakening as the "world is a beautiful place once you
love yourself" authors that are so big these days do. He reached into
his back pocket for the 64 pence he had left and held it in his hand as
he turned the page of his book. He was still twelve stops from Plaistow
- his destination. The woman in a gingham top in front of him caught
his eye and made him think of Laura. Same nose. They had parted at
Westminster; She had taken the Jubilee Line headed for Swiss Cottage,
he had taken the District Line.

Stephen had met up with Laura earlier in the sunny environs of
Wimbledon to see if they could get touted ticket to see Goran
Ivanisevic play Patrick Rafter in the tennis grand slam final. Laura
was fascinated by Goran's self-belief. In the end they didn't get
tickets, but they decided to stay in the area and enjoy the sun and
ready benches. The lush greenery was easy on their city eyes as they
held hands and spoke and fell silent and giggled the hours away.
Laura's smile was the sun. While their shadows changed direction on the
ground, her carefree laughter and frequent kisses on his cheek
convinced Stephen that this was a time for underdogs. Goran had proved
it by coming from behind to beat Tim Henman to reach the Wimbledon
final. He had wanted Laura for a long time. He had stood by her through
an abusive relationship with some underwear model guy, and helped her
rebuild her confidence. She really should have known that a man who
made his living showing off the one thing men tend to be humble about
would be overbearing and sadistic. Anyway, he always considered her to
be out of his league - but not today. So, warmed by the heat generated
by their locked hands, Stephen converted his liquid emotions into
vapours of speech. He commandeered adjectives, verbs, nouns and adverbs
to express every tremor, sigh and smile she evoked in him. It's funny
how often adverbs are used when it comes to emotions; it's never simply
"I care," but "I care deeply," or "I feel strongly," or "I love you
passionately". He told her everything. He laid himself bare, and she
listened with her eyes fixed on his lips the whole time. Stephen smiled
at the memory.

The man had finished playing now. He got up, walked to one end of the
carriage, and started asking for change. One by one, people turned
their heads away. They didn't even have the courtesy to say sorry, or,
perhaps, thank him for the music. The couple that had embraced and
kissed to his song turned to each other. They looked like they were
looking for truth in the contours of each other's flesh. They were
obviously stoned. Their moment was more important to be troubled by a
man's struggle for survival. The sparkle that danced in the man's eyes
while he was playing slowly faded and he moved to exit the
carriage.
"Wait," Stephen spoke holding out his 64 pence.
The man came to him, took the money and said, "Thank you."
"It's OK." His expression was neither a grimace nor a smile. If it were
a fruit it could be called acidic-sweet. He knew what it was like to
play your heart out and get nothing for it. He felt he had cleaned a
little corner of the planet but he wished he could have done more. He
wished he had more control over his own life. He was still smarting a
little from Laura's reaction to his confession.
"Stephen?"
"Yes Laura," he had responded with hope exploding from his
pupils.
"Did you know you had biscuit crumbs on your lower lip?"