The harmony of a guitar being strummed floated through her window amidst the sounds of traffic and laughter, causing her to pause in her dusting and stick her head outside.
The breeze mussed tiny strands of blonde hair that were unfortunate enough not to be swept back into her orange clip. She eyed the sky (a cheery shade of blue that lifted her spirits) and scanned the street for the sound of the music.
She balled up the dirty rag in one pale fist and shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun with the other. Under a small tree, almost directly below her apartment, she saw him.
He was a curious figure, really. One would assume he was important; a business man, perhaps, or maybe even a politician. There was a certain coolness about him, an air of indifference that first gave off the vibe of being a jerk.
One might stretch and call it bastardly.
But she was an artist of her own profession, one that detected the smallest shifts in body language and interpreted them. And that's what she did, from her window. Interpret the man with the beautiful music.
He's hiding something.
What is it?
Unconsciously, she began to sway- the melody began to crescendo and then eased off again, making a happy tune amongst the normal hustle and bustle of Central City. She didn't know how long she sat and simply stared at the mysterious man with a secret. His black hair fell unkemptly (but just the right amount of messiness that made you wonder how long it took him to do his hair in the morning) across creamy skin.
He looks like someone I'd follow anywhere.
He was into the music, she could tell, from the way his body moved with the rhythm and he looked completely at ease, like there wasn't a world turning underneath his feet.
Like he was blissfully alone.
(You don't see many people like that anymore.)
Without warning, so fast she didn't have a chance to look away, the man locked onto her chocolate eyes with his odd black ones and continued to strum.
"Like whatcha see, beautiful?" He shouted up to her, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smirk.
Somehow, she knew she should take offence, but couldn't find it in her to care.
(The compliment did not go unappreciated.)
"You make wonderful music!" She shouted back after rolling her eyes for good measure. She felt the smile on her face reflected onto his, and warm swirled around her.
This man felt like summer.
"I try!" He called back, a cheeky look in his eyes, while he played a more complex tune that caused her to sway a little bit faster in time with him.
(Almost like dancing together.)
He laughed and she giggled, and they smiled and swayed for a good while, neither willing to move until she shouted out, "Who are you, anyway?"
He stopped playing and began to pack up his things. "Oh, just your friendly neighborhood florist!" He replied, winking, before swinging his guitar over his back and meshing into the crowd while a disappointed woman watched him disappear with eyes like a hawk.
(That man felt like home.)
