Sauntering across town from her night in the West End at Club Blue, Hope was still electrified. Sunrise was still a few hours away and she enjoyed the way the evening's warming trend licked at her skin. She came upon Third street and the Hands Over Hollywood Cafe. She couldn't quite place the establishment's name; she could, however, place the fact that she had heard music coming from within on more than one occasion. In fact, she had been keeping her eyes on the place for a few moments each evening as she awoke.
She heard the quieted sounds of a guitar being plucked. It was the kind of gentle fingering that came from a musician deeply in love with the sounds he was able to usher forth. Hope felt the corner of her mouth soften into a smile. "An artist," she mused, "unwilling to part with his instrument, lest an idea strike him empty-handed." She moved closer to the door. The lights had been dimmed, tonight's show was seemingly over. Or was it?
She heard the quieted sounds of a guitar being plucked. It was the kind of gentle fingering that came from a musician deeply in love with the sounds he was able to usher forth. Hope felt the corner of her mouth soften into a smile. "An artist," she mused, "unwilling to part with his instrument, lest an idea strike him empty-handed." She moved closer to the door. The lights had been dimmed, tonight's show was seemingly over. Or was it?