Gemotions

He sat in the park, the afternoon sun warming his face, when he heard it. The opening bars, familiar and yet alien. His song. He’d written it for his lost love, pouring his grief into every note. Now, a busker was playing it on a cheap acoustic guitar, mangling the chords, missing the heart of the piece.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the pavement. He couldn’t just stand there and listen to this bastardization. He strode towards the man, his pace quickening. The busker, oblivious, continued his performance, his voice flat and uninspired.

He stopped directly in front of the man. The musician met his gaze, his eyes devoid of anything other than bland satisfaction at the coins falling into the upturned guitar case. He could barely contain his fury. "Do you know what that song *means*?" he barked, his voice laced with venom.