Gut Strings

Sitting in a window well, playing her ukulele. Sometimes, when she sensed a passerby, Rat would lift her head, wet strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, to smile at them. Hoping, maybe, someone would drop some change in front of her.  Instead, most grumbled as they stepped around her pile, sleeping bag patched with duct tape, overstuffed backpack, a plastic grocery bag, spilling its contents.

She found a melody and felt it matched the way the world looked at that moment. That afternoon zipped by, and by what should have been dinnertime, Rat gathered her things and set off.

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