She held my hand in hers, a strong, vibrant grip beyond the perfunctory. Her fingers were hot and scented with musk, although her body's fragrance was that of an ethereal ede. Excusing herself with no attempt at modesty, she assumed the bench of a harpsichord before the flowing draperies of opened windows. She carefully sorted a vase of buttercups, peonies and dahlias as a zen priestess in the flower arranging practice of hibana. At the aesthetic perfect she began to pick her way through a barq, cacon, then a seraband,. settling more confidently upon transposing a chopin noct