memphis blues again

He was an archetype of the modern male violinist. His dark hair was just a little disheveled, dropping toward eyes just a little moody and brow just a little furrowed. A shy smile betrayed the moody artist look. He walked with his head tilted slightly to the left, stuck there, probably, from too many hours of work. And when he held his instrument, he was just gentle enough to make you sure he was gay, and just aggressive enough to let you hold out hope. It was Bartok, after all. That's about as hetero a violinist can get.

Steven Copes: "Do you know where the stage door is?"

Aubrey: "err...uh.... yeh.... it's... uh..." (trying to make her eyes say something more like: Will you make out with me please? It might be relaxing before the concert...)

Male violinists all have the same hands. Dignified, slight fingers belonging to another era, of puffed sleeves and powdered wigs. Fingers attached to tragically slender palms and wrists carved of glass.

As Aubrey holds out her hand and gestures toward the door she quickly withdraws it, remembering that her hands are probably more mannish than his.

He doesn't seem to return her sentiment. Damn. Effing man-hands ruin it again. She holds open the door, trying to keep her hands tucked into her long black sleeves.