His shoulders hunched over the wooden box of his guitar, and his cheek nearly caressed the frets. His hair curled around his ears and forehead, threatening to obscure his eyes. The wooden heels of corporate commuters clack, clack, clacked sharply by on the Linoleum, hardly slowing as they passed. Bruce would finish a piece he was playing, a Bach prelude or a Telemann menuet, then look up at me and flash a gorgeous, blue-eyed smile.
Classical guitar is wholly appropriate to the confines of a sitting room or a small theater.
In a cold, hard subway station, though, its softness and warmth is a startling contradiction, like an airy Impressionist painting hung on the oily pegboard of an auto shop. Violators will be subject to fines and arrest. Dried leaves and paper rubbish from overstuffed receptacles drifted sporadically along the floor. Bruce's heavily soiled shoe stuck out into the passageway as he lay his leg across the narrow end of the guitar case. Commuters had to alter their course around the obstacle.