It was in the thick of the lunch-time gaggle that he stumbled upon the cellist. The air, although sweltering as he wound his way down from the canyons of Bridge Street, turned balmy under the influence of the harbour. The promenade was littered with street-entertainers, all after the same dollar. Knife-swallowers and flame-throwers, competed with didge-players and Spanish guitarists.
He had not been looking for anything in particular and, pied-piper like, followed the beckoning sound. Everything about her mesmerised him: the angle of the bow, the wisp of yellow hair, the height of the heels and the red of the toenails. He watched as her toned arm worked the horse hair across the frets. The instrument was hollow, yet resonated so purely in the vast open air amphitheatre that was the Quay.
Even before looking up, she sensed his scrutiny and, reaching the end of the phrase, stole a glance.