She's unquestionably talented. It's nearly cliche, the way her fingers dance over the strings, the way she dips and moves with the bow. The music is elegant, beautiful, perfect. She's an extension of the instrument, perfectly angled and graceful. All but her face. Her expression is straight, pulled taunt across her face. There's a dull fog of boredom in her eyes.
Suddenly, her finger slips, and her hand splays up, quickly, away from the neck of the violin. Just as fast, she recovers, and her fingers take their places again, with just a quick a break in the music. I glance around to see if others noticed.
The feelings in the room remain much the same, all except for hers. She smiles softly now, just to herself. In this moment, I love her the most.
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