Trying to think with avocado will only lead to heatache unless you're just waiting for the train

The older man was holding his hands around an invisible accordion, his fingers straight, held together, slicing the air with downward thrusts. I moved closer, as close as I could without looking like I a crazy lady. He was singing, singing and talking to the young man next to him wearing a heavy backpack. I could barely hear the words but I could hear the singing. Mozart, it was most definitely Mozart. I was transported. His voice was ordinary, plain like noname weet-bix but across the platform I could see the rhythms he was weaving, pitch perfect in la, da, di's. I have never heard anything like it.

His legs were slightly apart, chest open, arms swooping and stabbing, his eyes were bright and stern, staring straight into the eyes of the young man. They took turns repeating phrases, changing intonation and varying dynamics.

I stepped closer and closer, leaning in towards them. It was centrifugal. I could have fallen into the net of their music but instead I boarded the train.