“Here,” she said, but only to herself. She put the case down on the tile and lifted the instrument to her chin. Arms lifted in the weirdly familiar, half-awkward box she’d been taught, she drew the rosined bow against the strings, and listened to the low, throbbing hum of the note fill the space.

No one to listen; it was the wrong time of night for that. A crumpled dollar bill and some quarters and dimes littered the velvet-lined box — seed money.

She put the violin down and pulled out a clove, rolling it around in her fingertips for awhile before drawing the length of it under her nose and breathing in, closing her eyes.

Memory was most strongly triggered by smell. Hilariously enough, she couldn’t remember who told her that.

Probably him.

She ignored the memory of the tooth embedded in the pillar near the platform’s edge.

She put the filter to her mouth, took it back away, ran her tongue against her upper lip, and put it back, savoring the sweet taste on the tip of her tongue. Only then did she pat around for a lighter, frowning slightly as the cigarette bobbed from her lips.

Quietly, she snorted at herself, rolled her eyes, and snarked in his voice. “Never much’v’a planner, were y’, Jones?”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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