Garth made his way through the smoke lingering by the back exit of the factory. His co-workers laughed, kicked pebbles and waved their white sticks around in celebration of some strange joy he could not comprehend. But the cigarette smoke reminded him of his destination, so he rushed by without a word.
He took a 20-minute bus ride to his rented room. Once home he washed up, put on a fresh shirt, an overcoat and left for a block-and-a-half walk that took him to the scent of a wood burning fire and the sound of someone skilled at playing the piano. He closed his eyes and listened. This was the fourth consecutive day that he had stood in front of the English Tudor style house at dusk. But this time the piano music stopped. A minute later a dark-haired woman emerged from the home. Garth was on the sidewalk, blocking her way.
“That’s beautiful music,” he said as she approached.
“Chopin.” She smiled.
“I must confess I’ve come here each day this week to listen.” Up close she had the looks of a movie star. What was a young woman like her doing in a factory town? That she could play so beautifully only intensified the sensation overcoming him— at that moment he announced to himself that life would be complete with a woman like her. He had to win her over.
“Next time you should let me know you are here so you can come in and listen to my husband play.”
67Steffen.com 
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