He enters the room, smirk on that hideously gorgeous face. The *******.
Walks by the young girls like he owns the swag of a thousand Biebers.
He is mistaken. Or are we?
"Push the air through your diaphram" he says with a sly grin, looking across the room at her.
She looks back. Defiance on her lips? No. Intrigue.
Their eye contact puts a weight on bystanders; The building pressure of a crescendo waiting to be released.
She breaks it. He frowns.
He is impressionable but very rightly so.
She sighs.
Victory sings an out of tune pitch.
He walks over, dragging Zachary's broken French horn behind.
Looks like this student will have to wait; His teacher is on a mission.
"Mission accomplished" he thinks as she sits on his living room couch, wine of glass in hand.
He resides in his bedroom, awaiting the inevitable.
He walks out to find an empty wine glass and an empty room.