He seemed like such an easy target when I’d first spotted him on a bustling city street, a slight, trembling creature nervously dodging through the gray crowd. He must’ve gotten wind that he’d be pursued and fled. I figured it’d be one day, two days tops, before I apprehended him.
Fourteen days later and he’s somehow managed to stay one step ahead of me, much to my frustration. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t continually taunt me with his fiddle. Every night, around sundown, I could hear distant fiddle tunes float through the trees. Some nights, when the tunes are closer, they’re dirge-like, as if confirming his probable fate. Other nights, though, when they’re more distant, the tunes are more upbeat, even joyful, mercilessly teasing me. I search for the source of the tunes, but they seem omnipresent, evenly permeating the air around me. I’m determined to catch him, but those taunting bohemian melodies irk me to no end.
Play all you want, gypsy fiddler. You can’t dance out of my reach forever.