Chester Wiggins hated the violin. Its curvaceous shape. Its razor thin strings that left deep indents in his fingers. Its whining cry. The violin sounded as pleasant to him as nails in a garbage disposal. He did, however, adore his wife, Rose. Sweet, delicate, but full of life. She was eighty-five when life snatched her from Chester. Snatched her from his soul. And left him alone to run the violin shop she cherished so dearly.
*Just a little taste. Completed version coming soon!