from the concrete to provide shade for the many public benches. People converse in a myriad of languages, and tourists dart about in every direction—it’s crowded, but not so crowded I get that pang in my chest that tells me to go hide in a bathroom.
It’s nice.
And apparently, it’s a perfect spot for a street performance.
“So … you do this everywhere?” I ask as Pierce sits next to me on a bench that overlooks the towering Cardiff Central Library.
Dani puts her flute together, while Ajay paces around her, trying to figure out the best lighting for the video he’s about to shoot.
“She does,” Pierce says with a laugh. “She has no shame, it’s astounding. Not that she should, mind you. She’s really good.”
“Oh, yeah. I shared sheet music with her in the park; she’s great. It’s kind of weird, though, right? I don’t mind performing, really. I can shut everyone else out and feel the music. But that duet with Sang in the tube was a whole different experience. I felt so exposed.”
Pierce settles in next to me. There’s definitely enough room for the two of us on this bench, but he’s pressing into me just slightly, his shoulder resting into my arm. My stomach growls, and I wrap an arm around my gut to try to suppress the sound.
“Let’s go, Dani!” Pierce shouts. “We need that beer money!”
He laughs, and I silently roll my eyes. But he gets things started by tossing a five-pound bill in her upturned flute case. Dani gives a nod of approval, then starts.
The piece is melodic and slow. Our marching band medley was full of songs that were snappy, loud, and fun, but what pours out from her instrument is a complete one-eighty. Soft, sad, at times barely audible over the din of the crowd, but when she builds—and wow, does it build—it causes people to quite literally stop in their tracks.
“Wish you’d brought your oboe?” Pierce asks.
I shrug in response.
A group forms near her, not a super obvious semicircle, but mini-crowds dotted across the walkway. A woman nearby hands something to her toddler, who toddles toward the upturned flute case in front of her. He throws a couple of coins in, then returns to his mom, who stays for the full performance.
Others follow suit, mostly as they pass by, but I find it hard to focus on them. I close my eyes as the clinking of small change adds an off-beat rhythm to her piece, accenting the swell and fall of her phrasing.
“Okay, this is kinda cool,” I admit. “No one seems annoyed at all. If anything, they’re delighted to have some music interrupt their day. It’s wild.”
“They’re annoyed sometimes,” Pierce says. “Especially when I bring my trumpet out, as that’s a bit louder. But yeah, you’d be surprised how many people stop to take it in.”
“It’s cool that we have that power. To pop out of nowhere and make a group of people bond over music.”
“So you wish you’d brought your oboe.”
I laugh, as a wave of anxiety sweeps over my body. There’s no way I could do that again. Or could I?
“Almost,” I finally reply.
We’re back at the cottage, which is still as adorable as humanly possible. Their goal was to get pissed tonight—“pissed” meaning “drunk”—so they each bought a handful of the big 440-milliliter cans of cheap beer, financed by Dani’s spontaneous busking. Sophie and I got a cider each, because drinking underage gives me more anxiety than it supposedly relieves. Why she’s nursing her drink is anyone’s guess, but with the way she casually watches the conversations, she still doesn’t trust this group.
“Come outside with me,” Sophie says.
My eyebrows arch, as I find the proposition a little weird. But I go along with it, and no one seems to notice or care. When we get outside, she walks a few steps into the gravel, and I watch as she takes a deep breath. I do the same, subconsciously. The air’s nice here. Woodsy. Green.
“Should have brought a jacket out with me. Assume you don’t smoke?” She pulls out a large yellow pouch, a pack of gum, and some erasers.
I shake my head, and when I come closer, I see the pouch is tobacco, the pack of gum is actually a pack of filters, and the erasers are in fact filters. She’s assembling her own cigarettes.
“I didn’t realize you could make cigarettes.” Could I be any more naive? “How does that affect your clarinet playing?”