I played, and Bonnie wrote down the parts we were keeping on manuscript paper. Hours passed. I looked down at Bonnie resting against my arm and realized she was asleep. I moved my hands from the keys and just stared at her peaceful face. A slam of pain crowbarred into my stomach as I did. A rush of anger seemed to singe the bones in my body. Because Bonnie Farraday was perfect. Perfection with an imperfect heart.
