1.

Melbourne's streets were forlorn so early; the night life was well and truly over. The human migration had not yet began, with their heels clicking on the pavement, men and women alike. The busker's case was empty also. He took up his usual position and set to warming his hands for the day. He made a steeple with them, long, deft fingers with callouses on the pads. Hair crept up from the back of his palm towards his knuckles. As his breath met the cool air, it made fleeting puffs of condensation. His fingers began to pick out the plaintive chords of "From Hank to Hendrix". They moved with a life of their own and left the busker free to marvel at the small spectacle of his dragon-breath. The brisk footfalls of a suited man cut across the chords. Those shoes had authority. The busker watched them, and the crescent moon on the toes. The businessman's tread slowed as he approached the busker, and the emptiness of the case drew his eye. He reached for his leather wallet. His hand unclenched reluctantly and the twenty dollar note fluttered onto the black velvet like a fledgling. He never quite stopped.

The 5.59pm tram rattled on its way to the Yarra. The busker sat cross legged against the grimy wall of the Laundromat, closed now. To his left, the newsagent was taking in his gaudy lottery posters, "20 million this Tuesday". Pedestrians hurried past, beating the same concrete as they did in the weekly stretch. He felt like the concrete should have grooves in it from thousands of feet. Sometimes the busker caught snatches of conversation in a language he didn't know. Some people complained that Melbourne had more people from other cultures than Australians, but he liked the melting pot; hearing the rapid Mandarin, or was it Cantonese? The soft velvet of his guitar case was scattered with coins, mostly silver. One more coin dropped into his case, a little sweaty from a small girl's hand. He'd stopped playing while she worked up the courage to leave her mother's side. He offered her a smile instead.

"Is that a good day?" The businessman in his tailored suit, pinstriped, nudged the case with his toe. He spoke a little too loudly.

"So-so."

"Yeah?"

"A grand total of thirty-three dollars, seventy cents." His fingers strummed out a quick melody, E-minor, C, D, G.

"Why don't you save it, let me buy you dinner."

"They won't let me in, not with my guitar."

"Don't worry about that."

"Alright then." The busker paused, and with a wry smile asked, "So what do you think of the reserve bank's latest cuts?"

2.

"I don't usually give to buskers you know. I have a sponsor child, that's all," the businessman mused.

"I usually have to wait 'til eight-fifty, woman from Medicare."

The young server, labelled 'Danielle', leaned against the cracked Formica counter. She did not raise an eyebrow at the odd pair; the man in his crisp suit and the busker with his guitar. Their Big Macs came on a greasy tray and from her a perfunctory smile.

"They don't mind the guitar," the busker commented drily.

"You were playing Neil Young."

"Sure."

"You know, I used to play a bit."

"Do you play now?"

The business gave a hoarse bark of laughter, "Not since I played Harvest Moon to my wife at uni."

He took an iPhone from him jacket, touched the screen delicately. The busker affected not to listen, turning his back watch Danielle. She yawned, barely covering her mouth. There were small red and black flames painted on the nails of her second finger.

"Kiss the twins won't you, I'll be home later."

The businessman tapped the screen again and sat the phone on the table. A smile tugged his lips. It seemed to come against his will.
"You have twins?"

The crags in his face softened a little. "James and Thomas."

The busker smiled appreciatively at the two little faces on the businessman's phone, sliding his index finger reverently to trace a pair of near identical smiles.

3.

"You ever busk before?"

"God, not since college!"

"I'm going to set up around the corner." The busker began to walk away, shoes scuffing the pavement with none of the polished black authority the businessman had. His feet treated the concrete lightly. Three steps, the businessman caught up with an unexpected light in his eye.

"Mind if I join you?"

"You got a guitar hidden in your jacket?"

"In my office. I'll be back in five."

Streetlights glanced off the honey wood of the businessman's guitar. The panels shone. The strings had not been touched for years. It took minutes of tuning to make it sing again. His suit did not lend itself to sitting cross legged like a child on the concrete. The leg of his trousers slid up to reveal a few inches of hairy ankle. Across the road, a young woman, Chinese perhaps, looked up from wiping the plastic tables outside a café, casting them a curious glance. A couple of German tourists walked past, paused to fish out a handful of coins from a battered money belt. The silver slipped into the businessman's case and he offered them a smile that was no less sincere for its surprise.