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Mark sat at his living room window watching the rain splatter Rorschach patterns against the screen. One looked like a mother opening her arms, another a small child kicking its legs.
He took his harmonica from his pocket and played a sad riff, a tune he'd been working on since Brenda left. He played it slow, counter to the pounding rain.
What if she's right, he thought. What if he was wasting his life?
"I love you," Brenda had told him. "But I can't stand the way you daydream your life away, playing that damn harmonica. Don't you want to be successful? Make money?"
Mark stared at the rain just as he had stared at Brenda. "Not really."
"I want a man who's willing to work."
"I work," he said. "I work part-time at the music store and at the nursing home. I enjoy myself at the store and I get free CDs. The nursing home job makes me feel good. Did I tell you that I made Mrs. Winston laugh out loud yesterday by playing my harmonica? She started clapping her hands and humming. Laura said she had never even seen her smile before."
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