The banjo player, the smell of shrimp, the particular gold of October light through old glass. Ordinary things, continuing without drama, which is exactly how the best days actually feel when you are in them. My hands were steady.
The fabric was cool. The scissors were German steel, sharp enough to cut charmeuse without dragging. I cut along the bias the way I always do, slow and sure, letting the blade follow the grain instead of fighting it.
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