The Busker
“Hey! You there.”
Mill stopped and looked up from her phone. An old busker she passed by every day but never looked at beckoned to her. A pause, half a step back, then slow, wary, walking forwards.
As she approached, the scene before her became more detailed and concerning. A missing tooth; dark, thick nose hair; tattered clothing; gnarled hands and a broken guitar. Sharp, blue eyes, but the scent of alcohol reached her delicate nose.
A polite, “Sir?”
“Clother,” the man spoke in a lisp. Air hissed through the gap in his teeth.
He held up the guitar. A string was missing, the wood cracked and dented horribly.
“Look. Tell me what you thee.”
Mill frowned. This man must be insane.
“Come on.” He coughed.
Sighing, she leaned down and peered through the sound hole of the guitar. Confusion lifted her eyebrows and muddled her thoughts.
An opening of the girl’s mouth, a wrinkled finger at her lips.
“No. Tell me what you really thee, not what ith there.”
“Sir, I should go home. My parents will be worried.”
“No. Jutht tell me.”
A sigh. “I see myself. My face. A mouth, brown eyes, brown hair, cheeks.”
“What are you doing?”
“Talking. To… someone.”
“Can you thee who?”
“No.”
“Go on.”
“I look tired. There’s a cut on my lip from chewing on it. My forehead is wrinkled. My mouth is moving. My eyes are confused.” Suddenly, a desire to go home, eat potato chips, and sit on the couch nudged her heart. She took it into her hands and showed it to the busker.
“Not yet, my dear. Tell me, can you thee the truth?”
Fingers fidgeted in frustration and a tongue fought to keep calm.
“What truth?”
“Look,” the busker insisted. “Look deeper. What do you thee?”
“Myself!”
“Yeth, but in yourthelf. Open up.”
Shut eyes, a long exhale. Open eyes. “I see a girl who isn’t happy. A girl who is frustrated and trudging along a road that continues forever. A girl who sees only what she sees and what is in front of her. A girl, forced to look behind what is in front of her, struggling to do so. A girl who wants to say what is there but then… then, I’ll be back at the start again.”
“Yeth.”
“I see my right hand rubbing my face on the left side of me.”
“No, don’t go there. Come back.”
“I see a girl trying not to say what’s actually there. Trying to say what she sees. A girl who needs to find herself.”
The man nodded approval. “Then go, and find what you look for.”
As suddenly as he’d called Mill over, he picked himself up and walked off, disappearing into the distance. Mill blinked rapidly and cocked her head. Wonder filled her. Why was there a mirror stuck crudely on the inside of the guitar? Shoulders lifted in a shrug and Mill reached out to hold the guitar, as she suspected that she would no longer see the busker again.