She was like the last twenty-two seconds of a song I never wanted to end. Unlike anything I’d heard before. Especially not like the trash that frequents the radio. There were no lyrics; at least not ones I could discern. Just a mellifluous musical denouement. She was as infectious as the riffs of a pop song, but possessed all the class and composure of a classical composition. As intricate as a piece composed by Liszt himself, as haunting as Chopin’s twenty-one nocturnes, as sublime as Beethoven’s fifth. He was her favorite.
She was mine.
