The woman’s long, blonde hair fluttered in the breeze at the top of the skyscraper, as she gazed out over the city. She nibbled at her doughnut as she tried to gather her courage. The meeting time was drawing near, and she didn’t want to mess this up.
She glanced at her watch and, realizing she had only five minutes, quickly turned to the roof door, muttering to herself, “Come on, Gloria, you can do this. Don’t chicken out NOW.” She pulled open the heavy metal door and began her descent down the cement stairs.
At the 50th floor, she pushed open another metal door and entered the hallway. She could hear beautiful music wafting through the air, tickling the back of her memory. The music gained volume as her tread took her closer to the door behind which she knew she would find the composer.
Stepping through the door, she paused, gently closing it behind her, and closed her eyes to enjoy the sounds that now surrounded her. When the music came to a sudden halt, her eyes popped open, and the composer questioned in his thick Italian accent, “Yes?”
“Gloria,” she stated, offering a hand. He took it, shook it gently, then dropped a kiss on the back before letting it go.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered, “Gloria, my dear. You will sing for me, yes?”
She nodded nervously, moving to stand by the piano. She looked around, pulling at her collar as she realized the air was warmer than it ought to be. “Is the air conditioner broken?” she asked.
A voice from the corner of the room, behind a freestanding shelf overloaded with sheet music, came a voice, “Nah, just needs a little tweakin’. I think the flywheel came off the rotor in the whatchamacallit.”
Gloria felt quite certain that the man was not a repairman, as his comment made absolutely no sense. Just then, cool air began to blow into the room once more, and she took a deep breath as the composer began to play.
The six words were: doughnut – blonde – flywheel – skyscraper – composer – courage