Memory room

Chapter two

My stomach dives, the room spins and I'm there. The lake's before me, the rolling hills behind me. The sky is clear of clouds and the sky is so blue, it is like a painting. The wind is blowing through my hair and the sun is rapidly warming my skin. The trees are barely moving, each leaf is dancing to it's own melody. Dancing, swaying and jumping along the breeze. Each movement reminding me that no moment is the same as the next, or the one after it. There is no sign of human inhabitants, just how I remember it.
The ground is suddenly rushing towards me, I put me hands out to break the fall, but I'm not there anymore.
There is a SLR camera in my hands and I'm taking pictures of smiling fifteen year old girl. We are in a small town cafe, her curly chestnut hair is in a loose bun and her cobalt blue eyes gazing out into the morning sun, I don't know how I know that it is morning, but I just do. There is a textbook opened to page 117 in front of her next to an empty cup. She is tapping her pen on the table while she bites her lower lip in concentration. A strand of hair falls from behind her ear and I instinctively reach over and gently brush it back into place. Her cheeks become rosy as her ears turn red with embarrassment and her startling eyes gaze intently at her converses, occasionally glancing up to look at me looking at her before quickly returning her gaze to her feet or the textbook, though I'm not sure which.
I can't stop staring at her, she is just so beautiful that I feel special just for looking at her.
"Have I got something on my nose?" She inquires when she catches me staring again.
"Nope." I replied, looking in her eyes and popping the 'p'.
"So why are you still staring at me?"
"You're beautiful. I can't help myself."
She arches one brow quizzically. If I didn't know better, you think she's never looked in the mirror before or she didn't even know her own beauty. When I continue to hold her gaze, the tips of her ears turn pink and she drops her gaze again. While her eyes are astray, I snap a picture of her. It captures it perfectly; sun streaming in to caress her cheek, lashes casting shadows on her face, lips curved up in a smile.
Unable to help it, I put the camera down and gently grasp her hand in my own. Her palm is soft, yet her thin fingers are tough and calloused. It is obvious she spends a large amount of time with a paintbrush or pencil in her hand, she is definitely an artist. Her eyes flick up to look at me and I smile warmly. Without a moments hesitation, she is smiling right back at me, not bothering to try and hold it back. Then I hear the familiar ringtone of my phone and the "moment" shatters like glass.
My stomach drops like a stone and the cafe spins into a blur as I wait for the now familiar wave of nausea to pass.