[He's pretending he doesn't know he's being absolutely used. Used worse than this poor, pathetic lute. (At least she's only dusty, not damaged.) His fingers move across her delicate neck, testing the strings. No longer reduced to relying on catgut, these strings are some sort of synthetic fibre, no longer likely to snap.
They sit, shoulder to shoulder, while he tests each string, his lips closing to concentrate on the sounds. Easier that way; he's done this so many times he could do it in his sleep.
It's an effort to leave it alone in her hands to test the strings a second time. With every correct pluck, he gives a nod, a quiet "there, perfect," but with the sharper sounds he indicates a turning of the peg.] Do you still remember the first song I taught you?
no subject
They sit, shoulder to shoulder, while he tests each string, his lips closing to concentrate on the sounds. Easier that way; he's done this so many times he could do it in his sleep.
It's an effort to leave it alone in her hands to test the strings a second time. With every correct pluck, he gives a nod, a quiet "there, perfect," but with the sharper sounds he indicates a turning of the peg.] Do you still remember the first song I taught you?