Short 'Uns

Curb Appeal

6.24.15

Curb Appeal [working title]

Thank you to Charlotte for helping with my tense troubles and to Katy Did for the prompt on the FB page! Who knows...maybe I'll continue this someday... ;)

(note: this is slightly different than the one I posted on the fb post)

~*~

He sits on the curb outside the diner, quietly strumming a small tune on his guitar. His backpack sits beside him, cocooning his only other belongings. He wears a black beanie on his head and, though not in the best condition, it does its job. Mostly it just helps him feel hidden from the world. At his feet lies an open guitar case, a couple bills and about forty-six cents in change. He's counted it repeatedly as he's played, trying to focus on anything but the music and the people leaving and entering the diner through the door twenty feet away. A safe distance. Close, but not too close. He can't remember the last time he was able to get a good bathing in, and he doesn't want to make diner patrons turn away due to his stench.

He doesn't speak to anyone. Well barely, anyway. The only time words come out of his mouth is when something is dropped into the old leather case perched at his shoe-clad feet. If you could even call them shoes anymore, he thinks derisively. The soles are cracked, and the toes have holes in them. But he always manages to whisper out a quiet thank you, never looking up. Never wanting to see whatever expression graces the faces that look at him. Doesn't want to see their disgust or pity. He accepted this life long ago.

He's been coming to this diner to play for a few months now. No one bothers him about loitering, but no one ever asks what he's doing either. He's just left alone. Probably because he never bothers anyone himself, but he can't know for sure. That's what happens when you're homeless. People tend to give you a wide berth, he thinks sadly.

He likes the diner. It's quite peaceful and the food smells delicious. Reminders of when he was last able to eat a nice hot meal. And when he's feeling up to it—which wasn't all that often—he listens. Listens to families and friends chatter and laugh. He closes his eyes and just soaks it in. Those moments don't last very long, as his chest starts to hurt at the memories of what he used to have. A reason why he doesn't often allow himself the luxury of others' happiness. It hurts too much.

He's startled from his coin counting as the door opens, and a voice from the heavens speaks. He doesn't look up as he listens, continuing to picks at the guitar strings, but very much attuned to this new sound.

"Bye, Uncle! I'm so sorry we've been away so long!" the voice trills. "Now that we're back, we'll make sure to stop by as much as we can." She wasn't yelling, but she sounded joyful and delighted. He almost wanted to smile. "You know those boys can't resist your food."

"See to that, Little Bird," the man, Uncle, says, teasingly but affectionate. "Don't let those nephews of mine monopolize all your time, ya hear? And their brothers, for that matter," Uncle adds sternly. "The nine of you tend to over busy yourselves."

"Of course not, Uncle. They love seeing you," she assures, her voice going soft. The guitar player stumbles through a note, but plays on. "Despite what they may say sometimes," she adds cheekily. He can almost hear her wink. It's now taking all of the power within him not to look, to put a face to the voice. The very enchanting voice.

"Have a good night, Little Bird, and thank you for the gift." He hears rustling, from what seems to be a hug, then footsteps as the girl walks away. It's been a few years since he's given or received a hug. He almost can't remember what the show of affection feels like.

As she walks past him, something drops into his guitar case. He falters over some notes again, as he sees what it is. No, he must be mistaken. He stops playing. He reaches for the bill that says "100" on it. Needing to see if it's real. He picks it up and inspects it. It's real—very real. And folded within it is a white piece of paper—no, a napkin. He opens it.

In a feminine script, it reads:

Please keep it. It's really my only way right now to say thank you for the beautiful music. I hope to hear you again sometime. And if you ever need a place to stay, my door is always open, and my family and I would be honored to offer you our home for however long you need.

Best,

Sang.

Below her name, an address is listed. He vaguely recognizes the area, but can't place why. His head snaps up, looking in the direction she went. Surprisingly, he sees her standing at the corner of the building, watching him. Emotion that he hasn't felt in years fills him. She smiles softly at him and disappears around the side of the building.

Do people like that really exist? Beautiful inside and out? He must be dreaming.

~*~

Thank you for reading!