courante
The note wavers in the air, disappearing into the silence, and the silence is then overcome with applause. The audience is on their feet, cheering, whistling. Little Sabrina, hardly eight years old, grins widely and curtsies before running off to her mother in the wing, shiny white shoes glistening in the spotlights.
Childhood memories of old wooden cabins; horses, a lake, and an archery field. Photos remain, freezing the moments in time, and will do so long after the camp is gone.
She prefers to wear it around her wrist, like he used to before he disappeared from her life. It is worn, old, and the red has long since faded to a dusty shade of rose. She loves it more than she loves any diamond he gave her, any CD or stuffed animal; it was a part of him, and it has become a part of her.
Her shirt was a mess of florescent paint against a white background; a truly hipster chick at her prime. Dark hair, big sunglasses with the world at her fingertips, and he was amazed by her. Completely, utterly, amazed.