Her Favorite Wine
an excerpt

He looked at her intently across the recital hall. She wasn’t here often, but the days that she was made his constant vigil at the recitals and concerts worthwhile. He loved to watch her listen to music – it was obvious she had a million thoughts going on all the time, and her face reflected her current emotion and thought. It had to do with the music only some of the time, he felt, and he wished he could dive inside her brain to find out what was going on the other 50% of the time. When he noticed her, the trumpet soloist was in the middle of the first movement of the Hindemith concerto. She looked like the Mona Lisa, slightly smirking, slightly flirting, slightly all-knowing. How could that come out of Hindemith? The sound of crinkling paper distracted him, and he quickly smoothed the program out on his leg and turned his visual focus elsewhere – his mind was still completely absorbed by thoughts of her.