Gemotions

The busker on the street corner had a guitar case open in front of him. A small crowd had gathered. Maya, passing by, stopped abruptly. The chords were familiar. It was "Echoes of Yesterday," a song she'd written during her college days.

The busker's voice was rough, his playing clumsy. The tempo was slow and plodding. She felt the muscles in her neck tighten. She would have to go somewhere else.

She clutched her bag and walked away, her pace quickening, her eyes fixed on the pavement. She wouldn't drop a coin in his case. She wouldn't even glance back. She'd pretend she'd never heard it.