She watched that summer as he came and went at odd hours. Sometimes he disappeared for days before stumbling back up the stairs, looking tired, hungry, and, occasionally, somewhat battered. Despite her initial twinge of worry, he didn’t play the “rock and roll” that so many of the young people seemed to worship. He played jazz, the music of her youth, of those smoky nights in Paris when she’d danced until she thought her legs would turn to blocks of wood. She sat in her window and listened by the hour on those rare evenings when he came home early. He didn’t seem to have many albums, and a few of those he did have were scratched, but the music still made her smile and hum along.
I love outside POVs, and this one’s just lovely!