"Anthem"
He was always a dancer. Riza could, should she choose to do so, call out a dance step, and he could stop whatever he was doing, execute it perfectly, and go back to what it was he was doing. Sleeping, even – snore, fox trot, snore, all without ever opening an eye. That was her hypothesis, anyway. She'd never actually tried it out, but watching him dance, it seemed likely.
His was a soul of music, steeped in it. He could tap out perfect rhythm, could memorize a song – could write one, could compose harmonies on the spot. He could hum a melody to accompany the tapping of her feet, and it would always be she who broke it, stumbling over a bump, or just trying to avoid the self-consciousness of it all.
Sometimes he would sing to her. He had a mediocre voice, really, but he would sing with such exuberance that it made him wonderful. When they were alone, when he was dressing, puttering about the kitchen or the bedroom, he'd sing her something jazzy, break off what he was doing to grab her hands and swing her into a one-two step and implore her to sing along. Normally, she laughed him off, pulled away, but every once in a while, after a great deal of badgering, she'd let out a few hesitant notes. He'd laugh, amazed, delighted. She'd stop, and shake her head when he insisted she continue.
She stopped because she was embarrassed, yes, but also because he always stopped when she sang, and she liked to hear him. He had a comforting voice – a warm voice. It enfolded itself around her. Some days, she would like nothing more than to sit on the window-seat, sipping tea and watching the rainfall, wrapped to her nose in his voice.