The casual mention of musical talent came as no surprise to the D'Angelo girl, as the fact comfortably fit in with the picture she was beginning to paint of this fellow. In some ways, it was a masculine mirror of herself, it seemed--open smiles, broad spirits, endless paths, and a great appreciation for the pleasures life so openly offered to those looking for it. Music often struck Poe as the language of such things, abstract but understandable to those of any culture and dialect. A true nomad's language.
Her expression was a clear window to her thought pattern--her unsurprised delight following a wave of unhurried enthusiasm. With a nod of agreement to his explanation, she answered his question, "I used to play the fiddle," she began, well aware that it was a talent that she had not practiced in quite some time. "Until it took off for exotic lands without me, at least," she loosely explained. The story was far too long and bizarre, not to mention melancholy, to even consider drawing out. Instead, her mind turned to the day earlier, and the pretty coyote girl on the coast, consumed by her own strings. "A cello player may have reinspired me to reconcile with my lost love, though," she said a little dreamily, allowing her gaze to roam the store, parting shadows to gaze at the old, tidy contents. Maybe there would be a fiddle. Or maybe something for feeling the beats she lived by. A hand-drum or, maybe even possibly a destiny-ridden tambourine!
