The man slung his guitar over his shoulder and took a pick out of his back pocket, its silver surface glittering in the dust motes. The bar patrons sat motionless, not blinking, barely breathing. I hastily lowered my hands, having raised them in order to applaud when he stepped on stage. Apparently they did things differently in this bar.

I tried catching my friend’s attention, but Jean was sitting just as rapt as everyone else. I hitched my seat closer to the stage, trying to get a better look.

The man on stage was nondescript. I wouldn’t have noticed him on the street, not because he was ugly or even plain, but because he looked like everyone else. Both his hair and eyes were of indeterminate color, and he could have been 30 or 50. It was hard to tell.

Just as I was beginning to regret having agreed to accompany Jean to this seedy bar, the man on stage bent over his guitar and began playing, the chords shattering the air, scattering the light so that suddenly all I could hear, all I could see, was him.