"How is the song coming?"

Héctor did not look up from his guitar as Ernesto approached. He had come to the plaza to escape him, yet somehow the man still tracked him down. Héctor continued to play his melancholy tune. Whatever he felt translated into his strumming. Today he was feeling a little irritated and depressed, so that's what his music sounded like. Sometimes the strumming turned into an actual song if the mood persisted, but for now, he was just playing random chords.

Ernesto sat beside him. "That doesn't sound like a love song," he remarked.

Héctor still didn't reply or even look at him.

Ernesto leaned forward in an effort to make eye contact. "Are you still angry with me?"

Héctor remained silent and continued to play, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed on his fingers as they moved over the strings. Ernesto leaned back on his hands. "I'll take that as a yes?"

Héctor continued to play without missing a beat.

Ernesto sighed. "It could have been worse," he said, "She could have hit you with the shoe."

Héctor tried an A minor chord.

"And her mother loved you," Ernesto pointed out, "I think she liked you better than me."

Maybe a B flat?

"And you have to admit, Imelda is extremely beautiful when she's angry. Her cheeks get all flushed and her nose crinkles."

Héctor plucked at each individual string in an even little tempo.

"She's got real fire. It's fascinating. I've never met a woman with so much passion. I wonder if I could direct it towards me."

Héctor's strums became quicker and more angry.

"Overall, I think the night went well," Ernesto stated, "Sure, the beginning was a little rough, but I think you're beating yourself up over it too much. It wasn't so bad."

This was too much for Héctor. He finally stopped playing and faced Ernesto. "Not so bad? Ernesto, while you were yammering on about our music tour− if you can even call it that− did you happen notice that Imelda wasn't even paying attention?"

Ernesto laughed. "Not possible! I am a very compelling storyteller."

"It's true. She was staring at me the entire time. Well, more like she was glaring, but still. She was not paying any attention to you and was more focused on making me uncomfortable."

Ernesto scrunched up his face, trying to remember. "No... surely you must be wrong."

"And then her mother barely spoke to you at all," Héctor pointed out, "Don't you think that is a kind of a bad sign?"

"I gave you the task of distracting her, didn't I?" Ernesto replied, "And you did. I didn't want her in the way."

Héctor shook his head in despair. "Ernesto, let me lay it out for you: You dragged me to one of the most awkward suppers of my life with a girl who is more interested in ticking me off than pursuing something with you... or possibly any other man."

"That's not true," Ernesto said, standing up, "Imelda has always loved my attention."

"And so has every other girl you've talked to," Héctor responded, frowning, "I just think that this one is different from all the other floozies you normally flirt with."

Ernesto's face hardened. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Héctor turned back to his guitar, his frown deepening into a scowl. "I mean, she deserves better than getting her heart broken over someone who might lose interest within a week."

Ernesto straightened up in a huff. He pointed a finger at Héctor and opened his mouth, about to say something. However, he instead turned his back on him and stomped back towards the inn, nose in the air.

Héctor shook his head, annoyance rising in his chest once more. What was wrong with him? He hardly ever snapped, especially not at Ernesto. He had not meant to say those things. It was just that he had felt so tense lately. Why? He could not pinpoint the source.

He began playing his guitar again, his confusion and annoyance very clear in his strums.

As he continued to play, some children came running into the plaza with a ball. Héctor watched them throw and bounce it back and forth, laughing all the while. Héctor had flashbacks to when he and Ernesto were children. They would always play in the streets like these children, sometimes with a ball, sometimes they would find some sticks and pretend to fence, sometimes they raced. Once, he remembered trying to build a fort out of old pieces of scrap they found laying in the street. It ended up collapsing, but it had been fun trying to construct it. They also spent a lot of time bothering Old Man Mateo. They would throw pebbles at his door until he opened it up to see who it was, then they ran away before he saw them. There was one time in particular when he actually did see them and he chased them all the way down the road, yelling at them. Héctor and Ernesto had not been so terrified in their whole lives until they saw a crotchety old man without any teeth barreling after them like a bull, ready to beat them with a broom.

Before Héctor knew it, his music had turned a little more light-hearted and bouncy at the memory. He stopped for a moment, pleased with himself. At least he was not feeling as somber as before. He continued with the quirky little melody and turned his attention to the playing children, trying to recall more memories of him and Ernesto as children.

Then, there was one time they were racing outside town and Ernesto stopped suddenly because of a passing cart and Héctor ended up running right into him. Héctor lost a tooth that day. It had been his first tooth. The pain ended up not bothering him because he had been so proud to lose a tooth before Ernesto.

"You play so well, señor."

Héctor's memories were interrupted by one of the children who was suddenly standing right in front of him. He was probably not even ten years old; he was short and scrawny, with big endearing eyes, and a crooked smile. He reminded Héctor of himself at that age.

"Gracias, chamaco," Héctor replied, smiling back, "I try."

Another kid, a little girl about the same age, approached from behind. "Could you play us a dancing song, señor?" she asked hopefully, bouncing on her toes.

"A dancing song?" Héctor repeated, raising his eyebrows.

"Sí!" the other children cried enthusiastically, approaching.

Héctor smiled at each of them. How could he deny such an eager audience? "Alright, I'll play for you. But I'll tell you a secret..." He leaned forward and the children scooted closer, eyes wide with anticipation. Héctor held up his guitar so that they could see it better. "This guitar is no ordinary guitar," he said, "It's special."

"Special?" one of the children asked.

"," Héctor replied, "You see, it only plays whatever you're feeling. So if you're feeling happy..."

He quickly played a quick, upbeat melody.

"...Or sad..."

He played a slow, melancholy tune.

"...Or angry..."

He played an fast and furious tempo.

"The guitar knows," Héctor said, patting it.

"But it's you playing it," one of the children pointed out.

"Ah, but I must obey the guitar," Héctor explained, "We're both connected."

"Like a magic guitar?" a little girl asked in awe.

Héctor chuckled. "Sort of," he replied. He held up the guitar again. "So as long as you are happy and having fun, the guitar will too." He winked at the children. "Can you do that?"

"¡Sí!" they all called out happily.

"¡Bueno!" Héctor shouted and he began to play.