A Tune for a Night Owl

A lone busker dragging a scuffed acoustic guitar case slumped onto an upturned milk crate just below my chin. He plucked a rusty G chord that sounded half a step flat, then paused, blowing hot breath into his fingerless gloves. I slid my dark sunglasses down a fraction and muttered into the cool night air, 'Drop the low string down to D, mate, and give us something with teeth.' The lad jolted upright, his case nearly tipping over into the gravel. He spun around, saw nothing but my black-and-white stencil in the gloom, and blinked hard. Then he tuned down, cracked a weary grin, and kicked into a gritty, ragged rhythm that rattled right through my mortar.