The subtleties of her movement added that certain je ne sais quoi.
She was elegance personified. Her ivory shoulders and sweet decolletage the only flesh revealed within an exquisite black velvet dress. The concentration on her face softened by short blonde curls and sweet freckles across her nose, pale gloss upon her lips and a hint of Chanel No. 5 behind her lobes.
She waited with poise and pause and struck each, bell, drum, timpani and marimba with such subtlety, delicacy and dexterity that it made his spine tingle, his senses prick, those tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand erect and that immense pleasurable pain in his heart dance. Their impact barely perceptible but so vital to the texture of the piece, they gave it flesh and substance, depth and drama.
He loved the orchestra. Not just for the magical juxtaposition of notes that swept him into fantasy but because he appreciated the nuances of the gentler notes, the percussionist's strike, the string's dedication to melody. While strings streamed their halcyon notes and horns their mellow tones, he could close his eyes and pick out the most discreet textures of percussion. Those unnoticed in the larger scheme of things. The tiny 'ting' of a triangle, the soft brush of a drum, the deep almost imperceptible vibrations of the basest of notes the mellow tones of a tubular bell.
He used to play. He used to stand in anticipation of the conductor's nod and strike. A cymbal's crash, a gong's bellow or the shook foil from a glockenspiel. He loved that sense of anticipation while the melody flowed over his head and shoulders like a rising wave to wane and weaken before his moment in the sun then his turn to strike, to shine like the keys of the instruments he'd mastered.
The crash changed all that. Like the rip of a snare, broken glass became his glockenspiel, the pain inflicted as if a thousand harpstrings taught so tight they slashed and scarred upon release. The crescendo of bells and bass, the screech of brass and wail of horns, the cacophony that surrounded his damaged body leaving him broken and blind.
For all his suffering, his hearing enhanced. No longer could he see her but he could hear. Acute before, supernatural now. He perceived every string plucked tender, each note played foul, each sweet strike fly high and her . . he could hear her . . and that all important 'ting' that simply added the garnish to a wonderwall of sound.
Lizst Paino Concerto No.1 Movt. 2 'The Triangle Symphony'