“Crazy ass bird…” I mutter as I wipe the evidence away.

A horn blares and I jump, dropping my mirror, which shatters at my feet.

Shit.

“Pay attention, you idiot!” the driver yells. My heart jumps when I realize I’ve unknowingly walked into the busy crosswalk. The woman swerves her maroon sedan around me and the pieces of my broken mirror as I rush to the other side of the street, mouthing an apology.

Freakin’ Mondays. If a black cat crosses my path, I’m calling it quits and going home to hide under the safety of my fluffy comforter.

As I near the park bench I’ve inhabited during my lunch hour for the past three months, there’s something different in the breezy air that I can’t quite put my finger on. The usual sounds of children laughing and leaves rustling seem muted, as if they’ve faded into the background. I am intrigued by something I haven’t heard before—soft acoustic music.

The inviting melody grows louder with each step. The source is not far from what I consider my bench. I’m surprised to see it’s not a radio playing, as I first thought, but a guy who appears to be in his early to mid-twenties, sitting on the ground with a guitar. He’s leaning against a short decorative brick partition. A small, floppy-eared brown dog wearing a black bandana sits next to him.

As I walk past him to get to my bench, I notice that almost every visible inch of his body, with the exception of his face, is covered with tattoos. Black tribal designs peek from holes in his worn jeans. Faces, flowers, and clouds cover his arms, and the designs scatter over the tops of his hands and along his talented fingers. Yikes. I have one tattoo on my wrist—a tiny ladybug perched on a leaf—and it hurt like hell. Getting jabbed with a needle in the knees and elbows had to sting like crazy.

Maybe he’s one of those people who enjoy pain.

I eye the musician with as much discreet curiosity as I can muster and busy myself with taking my chicken salad sandwich out of an insulated lunch bag. I fumble with the cling wrap, which is now stuck to itself and holding on as desperately as a crazy ex.

The guitarist gazes downward, long brown hair hanging across his face and past his shoulders. He’s deeply immersed in the song. It’s a dreamy, hypnotizing melody that almost sounds like several guitars, rather than just the one. I don’t know the first thing about playing a musical instrument, but I can tell he’s incredibly talented.

I chew my sandwich as a small crowd forms around him. He plays on, not looking up. The only indication he’s aware of his audience comes when he gives a subtle nod to someone throwing money into the Mason jar set in front of him. I guess he doesn’t have to thank them because his dog is waving its onyx-padded paw at each donor.

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.