Around them, Roland heard the detached sounds of life in the park, almost as if it were another world from this one. He only had to step out of the gazebo to be part of it, but he liked being underneath its protective roof, with a musician who'd come with his Gibson, a real musician's instrument, at least from what Roland heard. No musician himself, Roland couldn't have told you the difference between what the stranger had in his guitar case and a ukelele, only that one was bigger than the other.
What he did know was that the instrument was well loved. Nothing was worn the way Gibson was unless it was cherished.
Roland shifted his right ankle to his left knee and leaned forward. Another man might have asked something obvious such as Do you really play that thing?, but Roland never cared for idle conversation. He took another pull from his cigarette. It was almost worn to his knuckles, but waste not want not. "A beautiful piece," was his comment when he spoke at length. Not in the awkward way someone spoke when they had to say something, for Roland only spoke when he wanted to.