There has been too much of it lately, it has become a dreary downpour, and she’s grown used to it.
One strain of music flitting through the air and she’s lost again, to the magic of the music and the rain. It is soft, so much so that she sensed it before she heard it. She has left her book on the window ledge where she had been perched. The glass windows are sealed shut, and the rain strikes it with a constant pounding rhythm that would have been perfect for her to read in what with the yellow light gentling the shadows and scattered across the room… if it weren’t for the faintest traces of intoxicating… something not-quite-heard. She paces the room, looking, pausing mid-stride to cock her head much like a sparrow, as if she does not know the cause for her restlessness… she doesn’t. There is a call in the air, and she does not even hear it, heeding be far from the question.
She feels lonely again, her enjoyment of the aloneness and silence utterly destroyed by a simple desire to hear, to connect, if not to another person, the music itself. What if to her, the music is another person, to dance into her life and dance out again? To be remembered, perhaps, forgotten, maybe, but for the section of time that it lasts, to be sought after, to be important. The only thing that matters in the here-now being only the undulations and the complete surrender to a force that she does not understand.
Slowly in the background, the beats become more distinct. The song nears the end before she can identify it, and it fades away.
And the rain still thumps relentlessly.