I set the guitar case open on the street. It rained. Oh God, it felt so good. It hid my tears. That felt good, too. I wore a scarf. I didn’t usually. I wore a scarf to look like I was different but that particular day I counted seven people with scarves. I was on the street all morning. It was a Sunday and it rained.

The street was cobble. Two lanes, one way. Trash bins and hanging flower pots. Shops with open doors. Slow traffic and blinkers for parking spots. I played my guitar, the three chords I knew, all morning. It rained. 

I kept my hair down. Nothing fancy today, besides my scarf. My boots were from Goodwill. My jeans were from Walmart. I wore two shirts. My jacket was from Ross. 

My mom made my scarf for me two years ago. 

Cash filled my case. Coin clinked around me as I sang. When I had a break I took the large bills and tucked them inside my shirt. Around noon I packed up my guitar and walked down to the cafe. I sat inside. I was tired of the rain for the time being. I wrote in my journal. I ate a cookie. I drank a latte. I kept my guitar close. I asked a woman sitting next to me if she could watch it so I could use the restroom. 

I went back outside. My spot had been taken already by an Australian guy with a black hat and a leather jacket. I walked up two more blocks to the park and found a bench. I opened my guitar case. It rained. 

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