From Chapter Three of Wayfarer, which I was polishing up yesterday in preparation for sharing with my critique group at the end of the week:
His thumb tapped the guitar's hollow body, weaving percussion into the melody, and excitement built inside him as he saw others beginning to sway and clap along. One by one more listeners drifted into the circle, surrounding him with the warmth of their bodies and the rhythm of their hands, and when Rob picked up his own guitar and began plucking out a bass line it seemed so natural that Timothy hardly noticed.
He'd never played like this before, every fingering perfect, the guitar singing under his hands. Suddenly he wanted—no, needed—to improvise, and when he shifted from the familiar tune into one of his own songs, the crowd whistled and cheered him on. Rob cast him a swift glance and cocked his head to the side for a moment, then joined him on the new melody.
A pair of bongo drums appeared from nowhere. A bleached-looking Nordic girl conjured up a flute from the depths of her purse. Soon half the room was playing, dancing, even wordlessly singing the tune—his tune. Timothy forgot where he was, who he was, and all the misery that had dogged him through the last six months; he was made of music now, and he felt as though he could play for the rest of his life.
Veronica was sitting beside him now, so close he could smell her spicy perfume, feel her breath on his cheek. Timothy quickened his pace, plucking and strumming as fast as his fingers could go. He had no idea where all these new songs were coming from, they were pouring out of him, it was wonderful—
It was Rob who stopped the music, minutes or hours later: he swept his hand across his strings in an ugly jangle that startled Timothy and the other musicians silent, and said curtly, "Enough." Then as they all stared at him, he got up and stalked away.