She was standing in the Dead Room. That tiny room surrounded by a warm ambience, with the velveteen floor, walls and ceiling, and an interior window capable of permitting any living entity who enters the Piano Room, to picture who is working in the Dead Room, framing them in an ebony rectangle and making them appear beyond a crystal clear glass. It is so tiny that not more than one person and a couple of guitars can be contained in it.

She was intoning her soulful harmonic melody standing in that room while playing a thirty years old guitar. Anyone walking beside her could get a whiff of her flower-esque scent in which the heart of the warm post-solstitial days was contained, accompanied by the aroma of the wood surrounding that room. Her garments were elegantly simple and embraced her alluring body while mysteriously enlightening her face.

The melody coming from the Room was mystifying and enchanting, capable of accompanying the listener’s brain in a bewilderingly mystical space.
In the poetic words she was mellifluously intoning, all the emotionality could be hearkened along with the passion, the wrath, the desire, the heartache.

She was singing in the Room; meanwhile, her work companions – whom she loved calling “crew” – were listening to her melodious voice outside in the Piano Room and their attention was centralised on the cassette tape entwining itself from one side to the other.

“The scraps of true Love” were the words that she was crooning into an analogical cassette when the man walked into the Piano Room.
He noticed her on the other side of the glass, immobilised at the back of the room and stared at her graceful figure with his enchanting pine-green eyes open. He stood by patiently until she brought her tune to the very last note.

Subsequently, she opened her eyes to notice him behind every other person; their eyes met and she was briskly taken into another universe.

Her intention was to saunter into the Piano Room yet while she opened the Dead Room door, he was ahead of her. She could distinctly gaze at his silky hair, his pale face, his rose lips, his astonishing, compelling eyes, to go down with a plain dark polo and a leather jacket. His scent of cologne, vanilla and nicotine was now pervading the space as well as her lungs.

That moment lasted forever.

He lend his right hand towards her and as soon as she reached it, he demonstrated his politeness by kissing her hand. She felt in an eternal bewilderment as he was the man she then loved the most any person has ever craved.

For they encountered for the first time in that tiny room.

Joan Lenine

P.S.: I was seventeen when I wrote & drew this.