Bruce stared up at the ceiling. He could hear singing. Not just singing, but good singing. It was coming from the kitchen. He put down his book and padded out of the study. Maria was in the kitchen, stirring a bowel of cake mixture and singing joyfully. Bruce stopped in the doorway to listen. He's never really heard her sing before, and her voice was astounding. She turned then, and her voice faltered, and she blushed.
"Sorry," She told him, "If I was disturbing your work."
"Not at all." He crossed the room, put an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek, "You sound lovely."
Three weeks later, Maria returned home in the evening from work. Putting her keys on the hall table and stepping out of her heels, she heard music. She followed the sound out to the balcony, where she found Bruce, sitting on the lounge-chair, a guitar in his hands, playing softly.
"I didn't know you could play." She said softly, sitting down next to him.
"I'd forgotten I knew how." He replied, smiling.
