The morning mist rolled through the narrow streets like a ghost searching every nook and cranny for its murderer. It was too early for the sun to show up in its bright orange and yellow uniform. Dan slipped out of the apartment quietly, backpack slung over one shoulder, other one free to showcase a street style, sneakers squeaked faintly against the damp floor.
Gary was dead to the world had been kidnapped by the sandmen—mouth open, snoring loud enough to make the window hum a new song that no one wanted to ever listen. His hand clutched a half-empty bag of classic salted chips like a trophy.
Dan looked at his roommate's sleeping figure for a moment and whispered. "This guy could sleep through the apocalypse without ever waking up, man such talent is wasted in this studio he needs to sleep outside in the tents with the homeless."
No reply, no retort, Gary hadn't heard a word. He was blissfully unaware, let out just another thunderous snore. Dan smiled faintly, locked the door, looked at the living room for a bit, passed through the front door, slammed it in real hard and stepped into the fog.
°°°
The city was half-awake, the diligent ones were on the road, the moderate crowd was just about to wake up, and the real lazy sloths would crawl out from the bed, when it was time for brunch. Somewhere far off, a bus engine crowd, a motorbike made a loud noise announcing its arrival. A black cat darted across the road, for a second it looked at Dan, shook its head in disdain, and left for an early morning hunt, its tail sliced through the mist.
Then from up ahead, faintly came the sound of singing.
Dan slowed down his walking pace. Ahead under a shattered streetlamp, a busker stood on an upturned milk crate with a cheap guitar, a bushy beard, a twinkle in his eyes, loose pants, and an open hat on the ground.
The man's beard looked like it hadn't been trimmed for years and years, and his voice was raspy, but he sang with the sincerity of a dreamer sharing his feelings with the world whether anyone wanted to listen or not.
'She took my money, took my soul,
Left me empty, I wasn't whole, I lost control,
People said love was free but she charged a toll...'
Dan stopped a few feet away from the hat. The busker noticed his presence, someone had finally show up, and he grinned mid-song, thinking he'd hooked an audience.
'Now I'm broke, broke, broke,
Without hope 'cause my girl was a hoax, hoax, hoax!'
The final chord was so off-key it made Dan's face twitch, he wanted to curse but thought it better to keep his trap shut.
"Morning, brother!" The busker said cheerfully. "Care to donate some funds for healing a broken heart so that it can emotionally recover and let me have breakfast in peace."
Dan chuckled. "Ever thought about finding a lyricist that can express your feelings better through words."
The busker laughed. "Hey dude, Heartbreak writes itself, it needs no author to pen down its pain."
"Yeah if you say so." Dan muttered, "But maybe don't sing the song as it is, at least do some editing."
The man strummed again, horribly with the music all over the place. Dan winced. These sounds were grating his insides with a potato peeler.
"You've got a good voice," Dan said. "But your guitar hates your fingers."
The busker snorted. "Beggars can't be choosers. Can't afford one that sounds better."
Dan reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and dropped them in the hat. "For breakfast."
'Definitely not for the music.'
"Bless your soul, brother! Have a nice day." The busker shouted as Dan walked way, he didn't even wait from him to walk away, and had launched into another disastrous verse.
'My love life was a Tax
My wallet was axed.'
Dan shook his head, smiling despite listening to the horrible lyrics. "He's completely unaware that he sucks, must be something wrong with his ears."
°°°
A few streets later, he stumbled upon an epic confrontation going on between two competitors. On the edge of the road, a couple was arguing beside a stroller.
"—I changed her diaper at three in the morning!" the hushand shouted. His shirt was half-tucked, being pushed ahead by his beer belly, his hair were doing its own protest."
"You'd never done that on your own. I woke you up, and forced you to do it!" The wife snapped back. She looked exhausted, angry, eyes bloodshoot but still sharp, just waiting to unleash her rage on someone.
Their baby sat between them in silence, blinking curiously at the two arguing adults, pacifier hanging halfway out of her mouth as her parents went to the peak everest of verbal war.
Dan slowed down. The spectacle was too good to ignore, it was too entertaining. Something straight out of a sitcom.
The man pointed dramatically at the stroller. "It's your turn to do the job. Don't back out when its your time to wipe shit. Remember we both promised that we'd complete this fetid endeavour by taking turns."
"And I also said we'd share responsibilities, but where were you then huh? Every day its only me who bathes, cleans and feeds the child." she shot back, emphasizing the words like an airstrike to completely obliterate the enemy's defences."
"That has nothing to do with this." He replied. "I take care of our income, you take care of the household. We decided this is how it was going to be before our marriage. You have to take care—"
"—our daughter? So I'm the mother and the maid, a buy one get one free deal."
"No, no, you're taking this wrong way," he stammered, "life is about balance. Just like Confucius said—"
"Oh my God what century you are living in." She groaned. "If you quote Confucius one more time, I'll show you modern feminism in action. By bursting your old philosophical bubble with cold hard facts."
Dan burst out laughing. Their fierce argument had really tickled his funny bones. They both turned toward him.
The husband frowned, displeasure prominent in his eyes. "You think this is funny. We are talking about serious things here. Don't ruin our argument with your laughter."
"Honestly?" Dan said, grinning. "It's really funny. You both sound like two characters in a sitcom, I just need to play a laugh track to get the same genuine feeling."
The wife rolled her eyes, but a smile cracked through her irritation, humor had jumped over anger. "Hear that honey? We're entertaining strangers now with our antics."
"Entertainment that's all you baby. I just want peace," the husband muttered. "And maybe coffee and donuts."
Dean leaned closer. "Tip from a stranger— flip a coin. Loser changes the diaper, winner makes the coffee. That way, nobody wins but everyone loses, and does chores."
The woman chuckled. "In a relationship one among us must have the upper hand. It's a power game kid, there's no ceasefire and no peace offering. No offense but you sound single."
"Guilty as charged." Dan said.