I know music. I know music like I know sweat on a hot summer day. I know I dance; I know I sing. But passion – no, no that I don’t know like I thought I knew. See, this man – this man he, he played and sang passionately. By passionately I don’t mean that plum melon fruit or that carnal lust that tugs every nerve in your body and all the blood that circulates your being to the pulsing private regions that you plead to be touched with breathy sighs and closed eyes, a bit bottom lip. No, not that passion. His passion, bred by culture, breathed of attention and care. He cradled his instrument and strummed her softly as if running his fingers through the hair of a lap-lain lover. He looked at her as he touched her factory-crafted curves. His gentle and lovely voice sang an attractive song – almost in a whisper – as if only to her. I could hear him, but I couldn’t understand his song. The rolled “r”s and accented “i”s didn’t translate into meaning for me, but the intonation of sweet surrender in his lyrics wooed my sappy soul.
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