Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:
She wonders about him….
Outside, the night is pressing inky black against the leaded window of his study. The dark has cloaked the gardens, the trees, the fields, the river, and the church with its sleeping dead. There are no lights twinkling in this secluded place. There is the bark of a fox, the noisy movements of small deer, the wild call of a hunting owl. Migrating geese, preparing. From somewhere distant a dog howls once. Further still a train makes a mournful sound.
His study is predominantly blue. A dusky, muted blue.
A high ceiling. Bare stained oak floorboards. Ultra modern technology. Two acoustic guitars wait patiently on stands. Walls rich with pictures – photographs, originals, limited editions and inexpensive prints – black and white seascapes and forests, Venice, dancers, a jazz club, a cafe, women.
He taps on a keyboard with long fingers, glancing up at the emerging…
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