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with the colour of the young musician’s fiery mane.
    Dominik stood there for five whole minutes, time suspended, ignoring the continuous stream of commuters as they rushed by on their way to anonymous lives and activities, watching the violin player with rapt attention as she ran through the intricate Vivaldi melodies with gusto and a total lack of interest in her surroundings and involuntary audience or the frayed velvet lining of her violin case, on the ground by her feet, where coins were slowly accumulating, although no passer-by made any further contribution while Dominik was present and all ears and fascination.
    Not once did she open her eyes, lost in a trance, her mind engulfed in the world of the music, flying on the wings of song.
    In turn, Dominik closed his eyes too, unconsciously seeking to join her in this other world of her making, where the melody erased all forms of reality. But again and again he would open them, hungry to see the way her body moved in imperceptible inch-like movements, every sinew in her unseen muscles reaching for the ecstasy of otherness. Fuck, he’d die to know what the young woman was feeling right now, mentally, physically.
    She was fast reaching the end of the ‘Winter’ allegro . Dominik pulled his wallet out of the left inside pocket of his leather jacket and hunted for a note. He’d been to a cash machine earlier in the day on his way to the university. He briefly hesitated between a twenty and a fifty, looked up at the young red-haired woman and followed the nascent wave of movement coursing through her whole body as her wrist launched the bow at an odd angle towards the instrument’s strings once again. The silk of her blouse was stretched to breaking point for an instant and pulled tight against the black bra that she wore visibly underneath it.
    Dominik felt a tightening in his groin and he couldn’t blame it on the music. He took the fifty-pound note and quickly deposited it in the violin case, rapidly shuffling it under a layer of coins so as not to attract the attention of venal passers-by, all this unnoticed by the young woman who was now living within the music.
    He walked away just as the music came to a halt with a flourish and the normal sounds of the tube took over again and the hurried commuters kept streaming on by in all directions.
    Later, back home, he lay on the couch, listening to a recording he’d found somewhere on his shelves of the Vivaldi concertos, a CD he hadn’t taken out of its case for years. He couldn’t even recall buying it; maybe it had come free with a magazine.
    He recalled the young woman’s closed eyes (what colour could they have been?) as she lost herself in the music, the turn of her booted ankle, wondered what she might smell of. His mind raced on, evoking Claudia’s cunt, its depth, his fingers exploring her, his cock pounding against her, the time she had asked him to fist her and how he had fitted so snugly and wetly inside her, and the sound of her moans, the scream on the tip of her tongue, and the way her nails had embedded themselves in one savage thrust into the sensitive skin of his back. Catching his breath, he decided that the next time he fucked Claudia, he would play that music. Indeed. But in his mind it wasn’t Claudia he was fucking.
    He wasn’t lecturing the following day; his timetable had been arranged so that all his courses were compacted into two days of the week only. Nevertheless, he impulsively walked out of the house when the rush hour came and travelled to Tottenham Court Road station. He wanted to see the young musician again. Maybe find out what colour her eyes were. Discover what other pieces of music she had in her repertoire. Whether she would dress differently, depending on day or choice of music.
    However, she wasn’t there. Just a guy with long, greasy hair standing in her spot, swaggering with attitude, playing ‘Wonderwall’ badly and then inflicting an even more sloppy version of the