Description: From The Game of Love and Death Henry's playing took on urgency. His impulse had been to make Flora hear him and realize her mistake. But the music swallowed him. He didn't want to hurt her. He just wanted to play. Time slowed down enough that he could turn what he was feeling into notes. A lock of hair slipped onto his forehead and his skin grew hot, but his hands stayed light and fast. He played as if he could not go wrong, as if he were meant to be right there, doing the thing he'd been born to do. The ground and his body and the sky were no longer separate, but as related as three notes could be in an infinite variety of chords. Henry didn't notice when faces appeared over the fence. Flora's band. A line of men stunned to see the source of the sound. As they listened, the men removed their hats. Eventually, they ventured glances at one another. No one spoke.Henry played until he'd said his piece. His shirt stuck to his back and a drop of sweat from his forehead fell to the sidewalk. He looked up and acknowledged his audience. Flora stood atop the porch steps. She held one hand on her chest, clutching her dress."Henry, wait," she said, her voice roughed up.She started down the steps. Henry wouldn't wait. He put his bass and bow back in its case, snapping it shut. Then he turned, opened the back door of the Cadillac, eased his instrument inside, and closed the door. He did not look back as he stepped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and headed home.

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