The Singer at Times Square..

Tugging his guitar bag closer on his shoulder, he staggers along the crowded road.

He pulls out a cigarette, lights it quickly before the windy weather ruins his time. Brushing his dirty blonde hair out of his eyes, he scratches the fresh tattoo running along the length of his left arm.

He smirks as he catches the eye of a young girl, donning a beige trench coat and a corporate bag. He gingerly lifts his dirty hat, and places it back on his head, smiling with the cigarette dangling from his lips. The girl gasps as she spots a line of straight, white teeth, shakes her head to focus and smiles back at him. He chuckles as he realizes he brightened the day of a cold human.

When he reaches his spot, he waves to the chubby man getting into his bronze suit. He pulls another cigarette out of his pack and flicks it at the guy sitting at the corner of the street. The guy, who looks homeless, accepts it with a smile; lights it and blows away to bliss.

He puts the bag down, pulls out his brown guitar that has the word ‘Teddy-Milly’ etched on it, and strings it a little.

Slowly, note by note, he starts playing a tune, his most favorite tune.

He starts singing the song. About the girl who blew his mind; but left him alone because he screwed up. And now he wants her back, but she refuses.

He winks at the girls passing by, smiling brightly as they giggle their way to eternity.

He lifts his hat at every woman, beautiful or otherwise, because he knows they were all beautiful.

He loved this tune. And he plays it all night. Even as the dusk sets at Times Square. Even as the night grows darker, and then lighter, like a firecracker combusting slowly over New York City.

He loved this tune.

He hadn’t played it in a long time.

He hadn’t played it since she went away.

He hadn’t played it since the accident…

He hadn’t played it since her funeral…

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