<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic">When she made her way to the door,<br/>that he when he was nearly out of the club.<br/>Waiting almost like an owl for a mouse.<br/>Even though he intended nothing sinister for her.<br/><br/>“Evening...”<br/><br/>His rich baritone was a beacon for her, she'd find him easily.<br/><br/>“You danced beautifully.”<br/><br/>His tone was warm, but nearly lyrical.<br/>As if every sentence was just begging to be sung.<br/>He smelled of the most perfect spring breeze in a meadow full of wildflowers.<br/><br/>“When I play, I don't usually get that. Its rare..and I admire anything rare. May I walk you home?”<br/><br/>He didn't bother offering his hand.<br/>He wasn't as simple as most she'd meet.<br/>But he wonders her reaction to learning he was the artist.<br/>He would hold open the door for her with an unseen bow,<br/>waiting on her answer. If she says no, then so be it.<br/>But he didn't think she would say no.</span></div>