It was evening in a small train station located on the not-so-desirable side of a medium size town. The waiting room was quiet. So quiet you might think it was in the middle of a cemetery.

If you listened carefully you could hear the drone of the night dwelling insects going about their business and living their very short lives.

All of a sudden a young man, a latecomer, walked into the station. He had a guitar case strung over his shoulder and was dressed rather flamboyantly like a rock musician. His hair was shoulder length and tied back with a leather band. His face was drawn and tired. He looked like he had just come from a long hard gig. He looked around the station, then looked at his watch and glanced out the window looking up the track.

He quietly said, “Damn! The train’s late again. Does anyone know how late it’s going to be?”

A young woman sitting among the waiting people volunteered, “The station-master said about an hour - some kind of trouble up the track. Hey is that an acoustic guitar?”

“Yes, it is”, the musician replied.

“How about a tune while we’re waiting?” asked the young woman.

The musician looked at her a moment, as if assessing both her sincerity and his fatigue, then nodded. Slowly, tiredly he unpacked his guitar, struck a few notes to see if it was in tune, and began to play a slow rock ballad. As he played his face grew less tired and began to come alive.

Gradually the people in the waiting room straightened and seemed to come out of their semi-sleep. Faces lit up, eyes opened wider, a few toes began to tap in time to the music. The people who had been ignoring each other, glanced at their neighbors to see if their response to the music was both appropriate and shared. The air changed and became charged with the electricity of the music.

The young woman recognizing the song, quietly hummed then began to sing the words in a soft, gentle, sweet, alto voice. The musician watching her smiled and she smiled back. It was springtime and seemed almost natural for love to bloom. The people watching smiled and nodded as if both approving and encouraging the growth of this rare and wonderful flower.

Allan Hurwit is a part-time instructor at Santa Monica College and a staff-writer and photographer for VOICES.