Her fingers skipped lightly over the piano keys at the bridge, staccato-fashion, playing the song it like it was a song from the Old West at the Mariposa Saloon. And then back again to the present, each note distinct and unembellished. It was a beautiful, endless loop that she could not get out of her mind. He had called her a thing, and even less, she was merely a reflection of him, he'd told her, and she remembered the sharp pain he had caused her to feel when he said it, because she had felt love for him as well.