Simon finally turned to Janet Johnston, a faint smile on his face as he said earnestly, "Actually, I only meant to invite Kathryn alone, but it's fine if you tag along."
At that, Janet immediately tugged Kathryn close to her side, as if afraid Simon might snatch the woman away.
But in the next instant, she snapped back, extending a slender index finger to point at the guitar case at his feet. "What I mean is, with this money, you couldn't even pop open a decent bottle of red wine."
Simon casually strummed a string. "No red wine this time then. A guy like me treating two women to dinner and opening wine—people might get the wrong idea."
Janet shot a disdainful glance at Simon's outfit. "Who'd get the wrong idea about you?"
Simon glanced at the Hermès bag on Janet's shoulder and chuckled. "Yeah, so I'm worried people might get the wrong idea about you two."
Janet blinked blankly a few times before it clicked, then she glared fiercely at him.
"Pfft!"
Spotting Simon on the street by chance, Kathryn had wanted to slip by unnoticed.
Their last encounter had left a deep impression on her, and instinctively, she felt that such a talented young man like him must be proud—he probably wouldn't want her seeing him in this down-and-out state.
But dragged over by her friend, Kathryn had no choice but to face him.
Now, hearing Janet tease Simon with her words, Kathryn had wanted to step in and stop her. But noticing the unperturbed faint smile on Simon's face, a sudden understanding bloomed in her heart.
He was proud, of course—from so many details in their first meeting, she could tell that much.
But his pride clearly lacked any stubborn edge born from deep-seated insecurity. So he didn't see his current situation as embarrassing at all. Facing Janet's jabs, he came across more like a mature, steady adult humoring a naughty little girl.
Most of the time, wasn't she humoring Janet's childish whims too?
Thinking that, and seeing her friend gain no ground in the verbal sparring with Simon, Kathryn couldn't help but let out a soft laugh.
"Whose side are you on?" Hearing Kathryn's chuckle, Janet immediately shot her a dissatisfied glare, gave her a warning look, then turned back to Simon. Her eyes darted around, and suddenly, like a mischievous sprite, she shifted expressions completely, shedding her earlier anger. She leisurely pulled out her wallet from her bag, waved a $100 bill in front of Simon, and casually dropped it into the case. "Here, kid—I haven't heard enough yet. Play one more. But if I'm not satisfied, I'm taking it back, okay?"
Simon nodded. "Alright, just enough to cover popping that bottle of red for you later."
"Hey, didn't you hear? I said..." Janet started to reiterate, but the boy in front of her began strumming the strings. This time, the bright-toned expensive Gibson acoustic emitted a series of crisp, tinkling notes. It felt familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd heard it. Instinctively, she said, "This one, I know it—um, it's..."
Simon strummed the strings a few times to get the feel, then looked up at the two women before him, a faint smile on his lips. "Flight of the Bumblebee—for Janet."
With that, the lively, rapid melody leaped from the strings at his fingertips.
Starting with a swift descending scale, the urgent tune instantly evoked an image of a nimble bumblebee swooping down on the wicked weaver and cook in the story. Then the melody tumbled up and down, mirroring the bee's agile dodges and weaves.
As the most famous interlude from Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov's opera The Tale of Tsar Saltan, "Flight of the Bumblebee" appeared in countless films like The Green Hornet, Shine, The Secret, and more. With its blistering pace, it had become a go-to showpiece for musicians flaunting their chops.
Unlike those guitarists who chased speed at the cost of errors—turning the "bumblebee" into a swarm of exploding hornets—Simon prioritized completeness, not deliberately pushing the tempo.
But with the standard sixteenth notes under his roughly 170 beats per minute, the sudden cascade of high-speed melody still created a wondrous freeze-frame around the street.
Within the melody's reach, passersby paused briefly in surprise, then all eyes locked on the focused young man.
A mother pushing a stroller stopped;
A couple browsing souvenirs set down their matryoshka doll;
A boy zipping through the crowd braked his skateboard;
A middle-aged man on a bench lowered his newspaper;
And a certain wild woman poised to nitpick widened her eyes and clamped her mouth shut.
In that moment, the absorbed young man seemed like the center of the universe.
The tune played for over ten seconds before a fashionably dressed young girl at a nearby stall snapped out of it, fumbling to aim her Super 8 camera at the boy.
Actually, she'd passed him half an hour ago, hearing him sing Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi" in a uniquely arranged version that reminded her of her own awkward, rebellious teen years.
That New Year's in ninth grade, prepping for the school Christmas party, defying strict parents to rehearse the song with friends in a buddy's basement.
*They paved paradise
*And put up a parking lot
*With a pink hotel, a boutique
*And a swinging hot spot...
Joni Mitchell was a true poet—someone to admire.
So many years gone.
Looking back suddenly.
Like another lifetime.
She loved music, painting, film—dreamed of being an artist like Joni Mitchell. But in the end, she'd followed her parents' wishes into Yale Law School.
Now, nearing the end of her J.D.
An unplanned trip, an unplanned street corner, hearing that song again—teenage thoughts flooded back.
So she'd lingered at Venice Beach a while, unconsciously circling back, pretending to be a passerby to hear the boy sing "Big Yellow Taxi" once more.
Even pulling out her camera to sneakily record him singing.
Then she'd overheard his chat with those two women.
And now this stunning "Flight of the Bumblebee."
Her name was Jenny too.
Hearing him say "Flight of the Bumblebee—for Jenny" tugged at her heartstrings.
People crowded the street; she dropped her reserve, slipping into the throng, adjusting her camera on the figure intently strumming, a small shock at the shabby boy's profound guitar skill rippling through her.
She'd studied piano; her top-tier tutor had once demonstrated this piece, explaining details. So she knew: playing "Flight of the Bumblebee" wasn't too hard, but playing it well was no joke.
And nailing it perfectly on a guitar's scant strings? Even tougher.
But the boy before her not only did it—he crafted a vivid scene of a bumblebee buzzing through the crowd in the melody-enveloped microcosm.
Then, even more astonishing: finishing the first 70-second run, he dove straight into a second, tempo clearly faster, yet flawless.
That had to be over 200 BPM, right?
She thought, as the minute flew by.
Another loop, another speedup.
Then again.
By the fifth, if not 300 BPM, it was close.
Sixteenth-note "Bumblebee" at near-300 BPM was top-tier guitarist territory. Yet here it was, bizarrely from an ordinary street kid.
Her hallucination? Or Venice Beach paranormal event?
Incredible as it felt, she sensed he could go faster.
But as the last run ended, the music cut off abruptly.
Her gaze dropped from his profile to his palm carefully damping the strings—clearly done.
The air filled with a string of wistful sighs.
Then, the surrounding passersby erupted in enthusiastic applause.
She wanted to clap too, but realized she still held the camera.
Quickly shutting it off, she tucked it away inconspicuously, stealing a guilty glance at him. No "Big Yellow Taxi," but this footage? Priceless keepsake.
Amid the cheers, the boy thanked everyone politely; some generously dropped big bills into his case.
She glanced—the woman's $100 still stood out. But her own $10, slipped in unnoticed half an hour ago, was buried under other notes.
A vague regret; wallet full of cash, but instinctively she held back.
Afraid he'd notice her.
Such an unremarkable girl like her.
Thinking that, the buzz lasted a moment before the crowd dispersed.
Realizing she should leave too, but a few lingered—staying a bit longer couldn't hurt.
Then she heard the woman who'd been rude to him ask in a somewhat stuttering tone: "Um, kid, last time you said... yeah, which mental hospital did you come from?"