The door jam framed her adding context to her slender body, reference points to where her arms began, where her toes pointed ever so softly outward. Pale, as if she had never wandered in the sun, her skin seemed to reflect upon itself adding a cool glow to her face. She stickily strummed the honey toned mandolin, seven notes in succession with three chord changes. She sighed, the top of her chest rolling up over the mandolin. Her lips parted as if to sing. She closed her eyes and played the same melody over and over again filling the ears of school children whose bellies wished for pasteries. Pigeons gathered to dance a waltz, paying no mind to the bread crumbs the old time men threw from the windows of the buildings above. The mandolin player's eyes began to melt and the chords cried.