Opus in C Minor
“I don’t like watching the sunrise,” she said, her face turned away from me, the blue and yellow of the coming day taunting and teasing her. “I don’t see what I’m supposed to see.
She was seated in a crouch, feet buried in the beach, her knees up against her chin, arms wrapped around her shins.
Foolishly I asked, “What are you supposed to see?”
She sighed heavily, then flopped back and stared at the sky, and I thought of the first time we met; rainfall, and her hand held tightly in his. She’d worn red and gray.
“Beauty, potential, new beginnings.”
She sniffed, and for a moment I thought she was crying. I started to reach for her, when she turned her defiant eyes to me.
“I don’t see any of that, Steven.”
I nodded like I understood. She turned away again, and gazed at the ocean.
“All I see is another reminder of what I have lost. No, a reminder of what was taken from me.”
She stood up, grabbing a fist full of earth as she did. A symphony of languishing elegance erupted from each of her three lithe steps forward. As she threw the sand and pebbles towards the sky, her scream was an unwinding, cold and forceful lament, like she was a punctured can of compressed air, all hissing.