The Cellist (if music be the food of love)

The heaving train left the platform and the tunnel swallowed the violent rumbling. The air fell still again. A woman around my age sat on the opposite bank with a cello. She opened with Bach’s famous Cello suite No 1 just as I was walking immediately adjacent. It jarred me. I stopped and turned. Her delicate hands played with real conviction and although some notes perhaps wobbled, it was no matter; I was pulled from my mid-afternoon stupor, like someone had poured icy water down my back.

She noticed me watching for a while, and presumably saw how transfixed I was because she laughed and stopped playing for a second. I didn’t mind though. What could I do about that? I just hope it was a ‘ha that’s nice” kind of smile and not a “oh god look at the gawking, shiny-faced man, I hope his train hurries up” kind of smile.

She played on.

Then stopped again and held my gaze and threw the slightest of grins my way. Screeching air started to pick up all around the platform. Garments began to float and my train hurtled obnoxiously into my line of sight. The doors flung open to a group of folks who seemed rather indifferent about their very existence. The train lurched under my feet and I did a little side run. Then we were pulled into the black.

I had that music in my head all day.