It's just as hot on the street as it was in the basement, even with the dispersing crowds, and Eurydice is feeling somewhat oversensitised already by the time she whacks her funnybone (which is a ridiculous term, there's nothing funny about it at all), and given that her entire being is practically vibrating from the full-body memories the musician had managed to draw forth, the last thing - the last thing - she wants is for someone to touch her deliberately when she can't have the touch she wants.

So the hand on her arm is a literal shock.

There's just enough room between a milling crowd of dispersing patrons for her to twist away, curls flying and a glare ready to be levelled at the person invading her space when she hears her name.

Not the mangled, Anglicised version she had to shorten to save her ears and the constant corrections she long ago gave up.

Her name. Eurydice. Hellenic and strong and she knows who said it and so the glare never manifests, because instead she stares wide-eyed at Orpheus, who was playing in some pub in London while she danced.

The sounds of the street disappear, and all she can hear is the ocean in her head. She sways once, then takes a single step forward and reaches out her hand. She has to know if he's really real, if it's her imagination from the music, if he's really standing backlit by a streetlamp and the shapes of people passing in the night, if whiskey and cigarettes and the music that felt it was for her alone - oh, hindsight! - is really him--

--she barely brushes his t-shirt with her fingertips before she sobs aloud as the truth hits home, and flings herself straight at him.