The violinist

As she swept the instrument under her neck, the pianist began the tune. Delicate chords sounded, and she began to play. At first the melody was drifting. She found her place easily in the music; then her eyes fluttered shut. Fingers danced upon the strings; arm flew up and glided down; body swayed in harmony. She trembled with delight. The notes rang proudly. High. Low. The violinist smiled. Music filled the room. No one dared break her spell. The wrap slipped from her ivory shoulder into the crook of her elbow. It laid there wearily in the passion of her song. The melody came from her soul. Her heart was singing with its moanings of sorrow and its shrill cries of sadness. The loudness grew softer. The pain became an ache. The fingers trudged wearily down the strings. A final measure. And silence.