He loved to watch her play guitar.
She always sat on the ground, cross-legged, shoes off, hair trailing onto her face. He loved the way her limbs contoured to the body of the instrument, the way she bent her head over the neck and strings.
And the look on her face.... He could never quite capture it, never quite describe it. It was like she was one part ecstasy, one part sadness, two parts in a different world completely of her own. And as her fingers pressed on the strings and plucked them in a mournful minor key, her eyes would close in rapture, and he would take the time to study her.
As she hummed and softly sang the words to her quiet song, her whole body would move, each part keeping time. Everything else disappeared when she played, because for her the song carried her away, and for him because she took his breath away.
As he listened, enthralled and falling more and more in love, the intricacy of the melody pulled on the strings of his soul, weaving them into a pattern he had never known before. She was singing about gypsies and wanderlust, and the words she had chosen so perfectly matched--
Abruptly the song ended. "It's not very good," she said sheepishly. "It still needs a lot of work...." She shook her head, the moment gone and replaced with dissatisfaction, a frown altering her once-peaceful face. "Did you like it? I'm not really sure I do..." she trailed off, and frowned again at the hand-written pages on the floor in front of her in frustration.
He could only shake his head in disbelief.
