The sound of the ukulele rains down from the balcony almost apologetically, as if dropped by mistake. I look up to see her plucking hesitantly at its strings. She watches her left hand with each change of chord, pausing to realign her fingers.
What are you playing? I call.
Gershwin, she says without looking down.
Her voice is soft, barely reaching me though the air is thin and the wind gentle.
She continues to play, ignoring my watching her. I stand completely still, looking up through the railing to see her in the gaps between each slat, their shadows cast on her varnished skin.
She is Rapunzel, a siren, her music flowing down in golden strands. I stand among the waves ready to crash into any rock she welcomes me towards.
She finishes her song and steps inside the house. Then the front door opens and rests lazily on its hinges.