’I’m on my way back from Les Beaux Arts. Went to see the students’ work. You?’

’About to go back to the office after a lunch meeting. Tell me about the art. Was it any good?’I asked hoping to encourage her.

’It was amazing…’ She started, her voice like a soft breeze on a warm summer’s day, filled the car and washed over me, carrying with it a soothing embrace. With each word, her tone flowed like a meandering stream, smooth and unhurried. Her voice held a melodic quality, each syllable carefully chosen and delicately enunciated, as if they were crafting a delicate piece of art. The timbre was warm and velvety, mirroring her own nature. Only she possessed the ability to stitch together the frayed edges of my mind, restoring my sanity.

’…But I’m sure you didn’t call for that.’ She ended her story and I opened my eyes. The little veins that had been bloodshot and exposed earlier had now settled, and the whites of my eyes were regaining their natural withness at the corners.

’Actually I was. I just called to hear your voice.’ I confessed.

A pause followed, her footsteps on the pavement resonated through the car. Then, she resumed speaking, her words weaving through the air, as if she had unravelled the deepest layers of my thoughts. ’There was also this one piece…’ she continued