She'd been playing for nearly an hour, and I'd run out of expletives to whisper as I'd watched her. Somewhere, sometime, I'd meandered my way back downstairs and into the press, and eased and nudged and drifted my way in closer to her. I stared in rapture at her, watching the way she moved with her music. A stolen glance at a standing poster educated me a bit; I was apparently listening to a selection of music written by some (probably) dead guy named Rachmaninoff. I'd never heard of him, but it sounded... strange. Beautifully strange, like something from a weird, slightly surreal dream. Part of me had decided that I really, really liked it.
But she was my focus.
Her fingers were so nimble, so dextrous. The muscles on her shoulders and forearms would stand, starkly shadowed when she was
