If he is the weather, she is the forecast. She watches him dart and change, and makes her predictions.
She follows to steal from him, takes the shapes of his hands and makes them her own. It's more than imitation. He is fleeting, she is constant. Her low hums keep him grounded, her walking fingertips steady his quivering pick. She is quieter, deeper, stronger than him. As he pushes sound through the air, she pours her own notes beneath it. They move towards the same cause.
The Bassist looks across the room, catches his expression, and rolls her eyes.