The Agony of the Bells | Daniel DiFranco
His fingers plucked a rhythm two, three, four, five, six. He sang of honey and bells. Of flamenco and wine. Of Andalucía—his home.
The strings were taut and buzzed under the nails of his right hand. His left worked the fretboard in shapes and lines. He thought of Spain more often now. Tomorrow he would be there. The first time back since before he married.
Here, deep under high steel buildings, he wanted orange fields and hills. His hands played on. The guitar was a carnival. With a flourish the song was done and echoed throughout the tiled concourse.
He looked down at the scattered change and loose bills in the open guitar case. He put the money in his pocket. Not his best morning.
He wiped down the guitar, removing sweat and oil from the back of the neck. He laid the guitar in the case. It still smelled musty sweet even after many years.
Tomorrow will be better, he thought.