The Player

From under a bridge I crossed came a most beautiful sound. I stopped, put down my guitar, listened entranced. I climbed down the bank to see who was the player. A man my age stood next to a pylon, eyes closed, swaying his saxophone. When the song had finished he opened his eyes. I clapped and smiled. He bowed, “thank you, thank you.” “You’re too good to play alone,” I said, “come join my band, we’re practising soon.” “I don’t play alone,” he replied. Behind him sat a...