She has such pale hands, he thinks, at the end of such slender wrists. They're soft hands. Elegant. They move like her voice: effortlessly cascading from high notes to low, fingertips curling slightly as they caress the ivory keys.

The music has drawn her grey eyes closed, and from his position by the window, he can see how it changes her. As sunlight tinkles into the room, the last five years slowly disappear from her face. The barely-concealed dark smudges under her eyes, the ever-tense shoulders, the darting flight of her gaze; all the stress and worry melt away, and for a few fleeting moments, his dream waltzes mere inches from his fingertips.

He reaches out; catches it between his palms. It struggles within the net.

The music ends, the last chords gently fading away.

His reverie dissipates, and Gatsby is once again left clutching at thin air.