She is the one person out of any I’ve met whom I am unable to read. Following a compliment of sorts, her pretty mouth transforms into a wan line which curls weakly at the tips, much like the natural tendencies of aged paper. In the two or so years I’ve seen her around, I have never caught her truly smiling. Thinner than any girl I’ve known, her long, slight sweater hangs off her smooth shoulders and displays the thin bridge between neck and higher back like a stripe of consecrated skin.

She awaits to go onstage with that severe look in her light eyes, like she’s cross or tired or bored, but I don’t know that. Perhaps it’s concentration taking the best of her. You can see it flowing down to her gliding hands, gripping the silver tube that shines in the spotlight and the elegant keys which writhe above her thumbs, beneath her fluttering fingers, the instrument that shivers wholly from her breath and touch.

The girl who has milk for skin, and I, who wear masked coffee, we communicate in the harmony made by sound without words. Thus, I could not say she never listens; only that I blend into the walls she doesn’t see.