He paid her no mind, plucking and listening, pausing, tuning. He strummed the guitar with strong fingers. She watched over the top of her book. She understood little of how he made the musical magic he did, but she loved it. Her gaze devoured the movement of his fingers, admired the way they danced from fret to fret. His eyes closed, he lost himself in his rhythms and it was then that she stared outright. The tendons in his arms shimmed wildly with each chord he struck. His mouth contorted beautifully into sharp shapes as he sang; his voice flowed seamlessly, rolling each note around his soul before releasing it. She looked at him, and knew she loved him.
- Letters From Somebody