A Violin on Baker Street

Writing With Some Ink and a Hammer

I watched him for hours. He sat on a sidewalk bench, holding a old violin like a guitar. Now and then, he plucked one of the violin’s strings, tilting his head to listen as if he was testing the string’s sound, its pitch. His eyes were locked on something, something resting on the sidewalk before him, something or nothing. For moments, minutes, hours, he would stare, holding the violin. Then, he would pluck another string and listen – listen and stare. Finally, as the sun began to dip behind the building’s lining Baker Street, he plucked a violin string one last time and smiled. It seemed, or I assumed, he remembered something important, or discovered it. Whatever it was, it pushed him off the bench. He rose, tucked the violin beneath his arm, and quickly stepped away. Before I lost sight of him, he turned toward me, dropping the violin…

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