Union Station. A hubbub of travelers, commuters, business women and men all traveling the same direction: home.
Home to the wife and two kindergarten girls who are waiting at the top of the escalators to surprise you. Home to the Chipolte bag in the left hand and six-pack of tall boys in the right. Or home to the 169 pages of “pleasure” reading that happened to be the newest dialogue on editorial philosophy.
(And yes, I saw all these. The philosopher was a good looking twenty-something who worked for the government. Gosh, I love intelligent, attractive human beings. Metro riding at rush hour. When you sit close, sitting close to me more than likely guarantees you a conversation.)
Either way, homeward bound. Along this monotonous route is an unexpected gift that is so very free. The musicians of rush hour.
Ray, the violinist at Union Station, played at the bottom of the main escalator. He said he plays because we need it. At the top of the escalators at my final destination, I could hear it before I saw it. A violinist paired with a violinist. Roy & Duff.
I liked them because they were sharing their passion without expecting anything in return.
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