Empathy

Her fingers delicately glided across the glossy black neck of the violin. With each subtle movement a new vibrant key sung from the voluptuous instrument. Upon her face she wore an expression so serene it was as though she were looking into a distant and private reverie. Sitting on her balcony and bathed in the coral glow of sunset, she lost herself in the moment -- as she has many times before.

The solo performance was always attended by a single person; the same person. Many times her sat, waiting in earnest to hear her sweet, soulful song. From across the manicured courtyard he excitedly had observed her emerge from her small apartment, violin in hand. Her auburn hair fluttered wildly like a halo of tiny butterflies as her long pink nightgown rippled in the gentle evening breeze.

Watching her, as he always did, he put his pen to paper. Certainly he had encountered more beautiful women in his life, but in his eyes, none could compare to his muse. Ink flowed from his pen, describing in long detail her fair, elfin features. He shook away the inkling to call her exotic, because she was -- in many ways -- painfully familiar to him. Yet, often he felt, from across the emerald expanse that separated their mirrored dwellings, he was beholding a creature from another time; the incarnation of a siren or some lesser goddess.

Nevertheless, he was bewitched by her. She seemed to live a quiet, solitary life like his. Everyday she came and went like clockwork, occasionally returning with only a few small parcels of common necessities. Even less often she would have visitors. Yet, she never seemed melancholy. Just like everything else he witnessed, she would appear on her balcony with her violin as though it was a formal symphony performance.

But unlike she appeared, he was lonely. He didn't need anyone to tell him he was a striking, attractive man; he knew this to be true. He also knew in his heart that kind, gentlemen like himself are easily broken by the carelessness of others. After several heartbreaks he has retreated into a safe, albeit empty, solitude. That loneliness began to ebb when she moved into the apartment facing his. It was also when he first started to feel the compulsion to write again. Certainly he had written love letters and short poems for previous lovers, but never had the urge been so great. They were just lines, half-thoughts, at first. Soon, though, he became bolder. Odes and stories, and soon journals began to fill his once bare shelves. But his secret remained a heavy secret; never had even mentioned his redhaired subject, even to the closest of friends. In the year he had watched her and listened to her exquisite siren song, he grew thinner, knowing that he was pining for her.

Despite his discretion, his attention did not go unnoticed. On this night, like so many others she had slipped into her favorite nightgown and proceeded towards her balcony holding her beloved violin. Glancing towards the opposing apartment, she saw a familiar face, cast in heavy shadows, peering out into the evening. When she had first moved into this new home, it was to escape yet another failed love. She filled the lonely nights with her musical friend, enjoying how deeply the notes soothed her soul. At first she played for her sadness; heavy bitter notes written long ago by others unlucky in love.

But as she noticed him, she no longer needed to fill the void inside. Rather, now she felt something bright and hopeful mending the hole in her heart. She played songs of of the seasons and heavens, and oceans. Each time she saw his lovely, handsome face in the window she felt a little warmer and new again. Yet, soon the songs of other weren't enough, so for the first time she began to compose music of her own. As the graceful fibers of her bow caressed the violin's strings, she played songs about her mysterious nighttime companion. She would watch him writing furiously by the flicker of a single candle, night after night. At first she thought dreamily that perhaps he was writing love letters to a lover, but she never saw anyone visit him.

Month by month he wrote linger and longer into the night. She then played songs about his passionate writing. Often she imagined him to be a prolific but tragic writer; brilliantly recounting epics about divine loves, and fate. Over time, she imagined her music the same way; carrying the story of love over oceans and through a timeless history. This night, like the others, she stole glimpses of her neighbor, yearning to know what he was writing once more. But tonight her eyes lingered too long, and she froze as his intense eyes locked with hers. A sharp chord was struck inside of her; then it snapped, releasing her from the moment. This had to be the night. She sat her violin on the bench and raced for the stairs, fearing she would lose her nerve if she didn't run.

He saw her abandon her violin and hastily dash for the stairs. Whatever reservations he might have had melted away, and he made for his front door wearing nothing but his pajama pants. His legs felt heavy and uncoordinated, hindering him from reaching her faster. He descended the stairs two at a time, trying to catch up to her. As his bare feet hit the moist grass she rounded a blooming rose bush.

Under the violet glow of dusk her could still see the brilliant pink glow rising on her cheeks, her hair illuminated like a celestial flame: she never looked more beautiful to him. For the first time she saw his face close up, and decided he had the kindest eyes she had ever seen, wanting desperately to drown in them forever. Just then the sprinklers rose from the green lawn, drenching them entirely. However, neither particularly noticed.

She extended her hand out to him. He hesitated for a moment, but then grasped his much larger hand around hers and pulled her deep into an embrace. She felt as though she were melting into hi,, wrapping her arms around his waist. For a long moment they stood breathing in the fragrance of the wet grass, the darkening night sky and each other. A wave of familiarity washed over them.

Tipping her chin upwards with his crooked finger he looked deep into her eyes for the first time, truly. In them he saw a tender, passionate soul just like his own, and he knew right then he would be lost without her. She brought her lips to his, having fantasized about this moment for nearly a year. As their lips met a sizzling spark passed between them, and the kiss deepened. She laced her arms around his neck, and he cradled her face firmly, opening his mouth to hers. Softly she moaned into his mouth, her tongue seeking his. The contact was exhilarating, but after so long of watching the source of his affection he simply needed more. Sensing his urgency, she grabbed his shoulder, pulling them both down to the wet grass, under the shower of the sprinklers.

Nestled comfortably, between her thighs, he smiled at her, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. Beneath the dark fringe hanging over his eyes he beheld his goddess -- his muse -- alive and aroused before him. Brilliant strands of hair plastered to her face; lips wet and parted. No matter how he had watched and written of her nothing compared to this moment. She pulled him closer, kissing him firmly, although more aggressively this time. His hands roamed over her tenderly, curiously, and she felt as though he were composing one of his literary creations upon her skin. Never In her life has she ever felt so adored. Filled with her own desire to experience every inch of her inspiration, she smoothed her hands down his back, over his chest and everywhere she could reach. She memorized every plane, ripple and valley, her fingers moving as though she could play him as her violin. In that moment, he felt just as cherished, her sensual song singing in his soul.

His hand slowly pushed her nightgown up her leg until her could slip under the hem. Timidly at first he inched his fingers closer to the center of her desire. Finding no panties to hinder his journey, he ventured forward. He found her sex already hot and wet, urging him further. Not to allow him to have all of the fun, she slipped a hand between them, seeking out his heavy manhood already pressed against the inside of her thigh. Breaking the kiss he gasped wildly for air as her small hand worked its way into his pants, grasping him firmly. He looked about the courtyard. He was relieved to find they were not only alone, but sheltered from passersby behind the rose bush.

Encouraged he tugged the straps of her nightgown over her shoulders, her breasts coming into full view. With her thumbs she pushed his soft pants down over his hips. His hardness stood erect and he was surprised by the slight chill in the night air. Before he could say anything she encircled him with her hand, bring him closer to her womanhood.

He bent forward taking one pink, erect nipple into his mouth. She arched against him, rubbing the head of his penis against her painfully hard clitoris. He was crazed with desire, his erection felt unbearably hot and hard. Instinctively he lunged forward, enveloping himself in her moist, silken sheath. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, needing to fellt as much of him as possible. Overwhelmed. He steadied himself for a moment, but as her hips bucked against his, he let go of his waning self-control. Plunging into her again he lost himself in the purest pleasure he had ever known. Rising to meet him thrust for thrust, she found herself quickly at the sharp precipice of ecstasy. Nearing climax himself, he pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, "You are my muse, and I'll never stop writing for you." Tears trickled down her cheeks as she replied, "And I will never stop playing the music you have written on my soul." He kissed her desperately, trying to leave the imprint of his affection on her lips forever. She writhed and sobbed an ecstatic breath into his mouth, her climax consuming her. His orgasm followed quickly behind hers.

They laid entwined for a long time, relishing in the afterglow. Watching thin, white clouds veil and unveil the brilliant stars both found themselves wrapped in a sensation of total joy for the first time. Propping his head up on one hand he asked, "Can I ask you, what's your name?" She smiled, placed a delicate kiss on his lower lip and replied, "You can call me 'soulmate'." He tightened his embrace around her and glanced to the heavens, knowing the universe was smiling down at them. Yes, 'soulmate' would do just fine.