She stuck violets in her loosely braided hair, knowing they would wilt within the hour. She opened her legs, bringing her cello to her heart, and tuned it. I loved watching her scapulae draw the bow and her neck nuzzle the fingerboard as though it were telling her a secret.
Halfway through the Bizet, she twisted her hair into a bun and secured it with a pencil. One of the violets fell to the floor. When the orchestra took a break, I retrieved the flower and pressed it in my trombone part.
Years later, when we played the Bizet again, her hair had greyed a bit. The violet fell from my music. It was still purple.