An old man plucked at the guitar strings, in a slow taffy of movement that stretched each note around his fingertips and then rose into the air. You c...uld almost taste the notes hovering in the cool breeze. As he began to play, everyone would get quiet, so quiet that all you heard was his guitar and the distant locusts singing along. Many times he talked as he played, sometimes telling a story, sometimes reciting a strange poem. His voice was deep and rhythmic, but he spoke quietly, just above. It was something I had wanted to do for nearly the last 14 hours. His face was pressed against the top of my head, smelling my hair. I thought I felt the slightest press of his lips just above my hairline near my forehead then my senses suddenly came back over me. I gently pushed away from him but held onto his arms. I was startled for the briefest second to see an intense look in his eyes and my pulse quickened as his gaze seemed to strip me naked. ‘What are you still doing here?!’ I asked. More

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