Familiar faces. Sometimes he rode the ferry with strangers.
Someone else from the art department arrived, but left soon with the someone she’d brought.
He moved onto the ferry, curious more than excited.
Guitars in stands. Rows of benches. Twilight.
He went into the deli first and bought a cup of tea.
Back outside, he started down the metal steps, careful not to hit his head on the overhang or catch the strap of his guitar case on the railing.
He noticed the smell of the first drops of rain hitting the concrete, the small splashes disappearing from view as he descended.
He pressed the button and heard the familiar, quiet buzz through the door.
It began to rain harder, the drops spreading and connecting on the bag he carried his equipment in.