By Catie Damon

The couple leaned forward against the cold metal railing and smiled, lips cracked open from the salty air. Below them read, “Issaquah Ferry” in thick, forest green cursive letters. High-pitched notes pierced the wind above the engine’s drone and the girl turned around to find an old man sitting cross-legged, guitar in lap. A small white rabbit was perched atop his head, eyes tightly closed and ears swept back. Its neck was tucked into its body to bolster itself from the wind. In front of the pair, a guitar case lay open with a few crumpled bills scattered across maroon crushed velvet. The man’s smoker’s voice seeped through his yellowed teeth under a horsehair mustache. The girl watched the red, paunchy fingertips press deeply into the strings.

“Did you train him to stay with you?” The girl asked when the singing stopped.

“He likes it up there, it’s the warmest spot, where all the heat escapes. Didn’t have to do a thing, he found it himself.” Read the rest of this entry »