Normally, I would expect people to pat the adorable dog on its furry head for being so talented, but they don’t. The dog has the same untouchable air as his companion, as if there’s an invisible stamp across both of them that says: look, listen, enjoy, but don’t touch.
I’m intrigued and probably chewing with my mouth open as I peer between two women carrying huge black shopping bags. I’m inexplicably drawn to his voice and his look. He seems unique, hard to describe but attractive in a rugged way.
His melancholy smile carries a hint of sensuality. He’s like an eclipse—simultaneously dark and light, and not safe to look at for too long without suffering a burn.
I frown when the women with the shopping bags throw change into his jar and walk toward the park exit. Throwing change into a water fountain is acceptable, but giving change to an actual person? That just seems wrong to me. I want them to give him fives, tens, or twenties—not quarters and dimes. Although he seems totally unfazed, I’m offended on his behalf.
Taking a sip from my water bottle, I slip off my three-inch black heels and tuck my feet beneath me. I pull a paperback out of my huge faux leather purse. This hour in the middle of the day is my time to relax and lose myself in the story I’m reading. To forget I still live at home with my parents and my teen sister who has more of a social life than I do.
At 12:50 p.m., I step back into my shoes, wishing I could stay here for the rest of the day, finish the romance novel I’m reading, and hear what the musician is going to play next. His music has swept away my annoyance over the head-crashing bird and the screaming driver.
Reluctantly, I grab my lunch bag and head back to the office, smiling at him as I pass. He taps his silver rings against the body of his guitar as he transitions to play the next song—a popular rock song. I can’t remember the name of it, but I know it’s going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.
On Tuesday afternoon the guitarist with his billboard of ink is in the park again. This time he’s playing a different type of music with a Spanish vibe. It’s fast and catchy—a burst of upbeat ambience under the dark clouds looming overhead.
I’m slightly unsettled as I sit on my bench. This is my place to come to relax every day, and now he’s invaded it with his musical backdrop and his odd magnetic pull. I kinda wanted to give in to the gloom today, to be sad with the absence of the sun. But his music, along with the bobbing dance of his head and the obnoxiously bright tropical bandana around his dog’s neck are making that impossible.
He looks up and meets my eyes as I chew my sandwich. The way he stares me down rivals the skill of my cat. Feeling slightly hypnotized and light-headed, I tear my eyes away from his and toss a small piece of bread to an impatient pigeon. A few seconds later I peek back and catch him grinning playfully at me as he shakes his hair out of his face, like he knows he made me feel spastic for a moment.
My stomach does a small flip, and I throw the last of my bread to the pigeon. I glance at the guitarist once more and my heart skips a few beats. He’s still watching me.
He winks, smiles the most adorably sexy smile I’ve ever seen on a man, then returns his attention to his guitar.
Determined to hide my interest in what feels like subtle flirting, I pull my paperback from my bag. But even the weather won’t let me distract myself from the guitarist. A light drizzle starts before I can open the book. The slightest amount of moisture is enough to make my hair look like I went and got a bad perm, which is not a good look on me.
As the rain comes down harder, I clutch my belongings against my body to keep them dry and sprint for the nearby gazebo. I curse myself for not bringing an umbrella today. I have them everywhere—about twenty of them at home, five in my desk, and two in my car. Not one of them with me when I need it.
Once under the shelter of the gazebo, I comb my fingers through my long hair, which is already damp and starting to curl at the ends. Ugh.
“Shit,” I say under my breath. The outline of my bra and my nipples are clearly visible through my white silk blouse.
“It’s just a little rain.” The deep, smoky voice startles me, and I spin around to see none other than guitar guy and his dog standing behind me in the shelter of the gazebo. He drops his old beat-up guitar case and a tattered duffel bag on the wooden floor then runs his hands along the dog’s coat, talking softly. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I wish I could.
Shivering, I cross my arms over my breasts.
“If it’s only rain, how come you’re in here? You afraid your hair will frizz, too?” I say it playfully, but my heart is pounding as questions race through my mind. Did he follow me in here? Why? Is he just trying to get out of the rain, or have I made myself an easy target for who-knows-what by being alone in a gazebo?
He dries his hands on his dirty jeans and gestures to the dog. In a hushed voice, as if he’s telling me a secret, he says, “He doesn’t like to get wet.”
My fight-or-flight instincts relax as I watch how much care he lavishes on his dog. The guy seems harmless, but I smile and move farther away from him anyway, glancing down at my watch as I do so. My lunch hour is nearly over.
My gazebo partner looks up at the sky. “It’ll stop in a few minutes. It’s just a quick shower.”
I nod in response, my attention drawn to the earring he’s wearing. The small blue feather dangles on a silver hook and nestles against his mane of long brown hair. The effect is very rocker-cool and reminds me of the bird that flew into my skull yesterday and left its little downy feather on my forehead. I wonder if it was some kind of premonition or a sign.
“You work nearby? Or go to the college?” he asks.
“I work in an office a few blocks that way.” I point off to the right, even though my office is to the left. “And you?”
He tilts his head. “You’re looking at it.”
“So, you…?”
With a nod, he pulls a crushed pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and removes one with his lips. He replaces the pack and retrieves a black lighter from the front pocket of his jeans. “Yup. Work and live here.” He curves his inked hand around the cigarette, protecting it from the wind as he lights it.
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.