It was a relatively quiet evening on the street where Jonesy usually played guitar. Or, at least, as quiet as New York could be; the bustle of traffic and occasional verbal scuffles from passing strangers never quite went away, even on the best of days. He'd been playing for an hour, total, by now, only stopping to give his hands a break or eat and drink something. And while for the most part, passersby would come and go, there was one person who hadn't.

He'd caught them lingering, at first, in the corner of his eye, just past his dreads. Though, at the time, he hadn't paid them much attention besides a sparing glance. But, as time went on, he'd begun to notice they still hadn't left. Instead, they'd sat themselves down on a bench just a few ways from him, quietly awaiting his next performance with every interlude.

Jonesy set his guitar aside and approached the bench they were at wordlessly. Then he stopped and looked at them, cocking his head to the left. As if to nonverbally question them about why they were still lingering so much.