Jane Jago’s Daily Drabble – Two Hundred and Forty-Three

He cut an awkward figure on the stage, hunched over a guitar he seemed almost to frail to play, with his skinny legs hooked at odd angles around the bars of a tall stool.

His mastery of the guitar would have been enough, but then the voice that came from behind the curtain of overlong hair that hid his face was of a purity that broke hearts.

He sang of pain, and passion, and unrequited love, dragging each drop of sorrow from every line.

Afterwards he went home to his his fat laughing wife and their tribe of happy babies.

©jj 2019

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