His rough fingers take in the electricity. He plucks the melody from the air, picks it out. He can feel the movements, the sound shivering at his touch, as he pushes and pulls to form...
To form this; the vague, translucent noise that floats through the air, claiming the room as it bounces off the carpeted walls. He can feel the echoes of his contribution resonating from the floorboards and up through his being, claiming his heart before it runs through his fingers, returning to the cold instrument from where it began…
The Guitarist gives her a sly grin.