My calluses meant nothing to them. They were tight-knit, and I, an outsider. Their leader, a guy named Jordi, hinted: no gigs with us. I forgot this when the skin and its colors were singing. It was more than just an instrument to be struck. Long ago, it had said its first words to me, and I had fallen hard for it. So, they did their thing, and I did mine, until the night I was playing a complex pattern under the bridge. Such acoustics. And when the last crack sounded, I heard the claps of a single spectator: Jordi.