Scheherazade
She is a kinetic person. She is always in motion. Always thinking.
But for a moment, for this moment, she is still.
Her body, usually tense and coiled like a spring, relaxes, calms. She is like a statue, having stood eons straight and at attention, that has broken free of it's stone confinement.
She is a secretive person. She is always hiding something. Always an enigma.
But for a moment, for this moment, she is not hiding.
Her eyes, usually blank, usually complimenting her poker face, are full of any and every memory. They stare at nothing and everything and tell so much more than words could ever reveal.
She is a hardened person. She shows barely any emotion. Always numb.
But for a moment, for this moment, she feels.
Her cheek, usually as dry as her calloused fingers, has something trailing down it. Something so unfamiliar it takes a moment to register deep inside that she is crying, that she is feeling.
The lonesome cry of the violin carries through the air, and she loses herself in it for a moment.
Allows the music to still her. To find her. To make her feel.
She wonders briefly if this person who has come to stand in her body might be the person she would have been. Or might be who she really is underneath everything that has happened. Everything that has been said. Everything that hurts her.
The violinist is still playing, sad but sweet, and it echoes in her ears. She can see a vague outline of the music in the air. A vague memory of something in her head. A vague aching of something missing she cannot quite place. A vague word she has heard used that she doesn't quite understand.
The violin calls her to come home.
She is a lonely person. She doesn't allow herself the luxury of letting people get close. Always alone.
But for a moment, for this moment, she is home.