Her Cello
I am lying on my living room floor on a throw rug.
The CD player is turned all the way up.
I am wearing my flannel pajamas (they are so comfortable!!).
The CD that is playing is a wonderfully deep dark Cello concerto.
I have never heard this woman play before.
I have never seen her before.
The emotion I hear slowly pouring from her fingertips could not be imitated.
Nothing has ever been so clear to me than knowing she is feeling this music a hundred times more intensely than I ever could.
I can see her, at the same time, I can't.
I see the Cello.
I see the music.
I see her eyelids, but not her face.
As the music gets louder and faster her eyelids clench, her eyes point towards the ground.
As her hands slow down and lighten their touch on the strings, the surface of her eyelids smooth over.
Her eyes look up toward the sky.
Her eyebrows raise slightly.
I see her hands.
They are well trained, and accurate, but that doesn't matter.
She can't even hear her mind anymore.
Those fingers are guided by her soul.
I see her knee resting on the left side of the instrument.
Those moments when the music is intensifying and her eyelids are wrinkled from being clenched so tightly.
.
.
In those moments her leg muscles are flexed.
They are pressed firmly up against the body of the Cello.
Her knee caps are turning white like the knuckles of a racecar driver who's car is on the very brink of careening out of control, in first place, on the last lap of the last race of his career.
As the music begins to slow again, and become deeper, her legs relax.
Her calf is no longer pressed against the instrument.
Her left foot is now up on its toes.
As the bow caresses the strings, her calf flexes and relaxes with the music raising and lowering her leg rhythmically.
Her thigh caresses the polished smooth back of her Cello's body now.
As the music grows more sensual.
.
.
As the tones of the strings become lower and lower.
.
.
She is not playing music.
She is making love to the notes.
Her bare thigh is warming the back instrument that is the very manifestation of her love.
She pulls the body of the Cello in closer.
It is now the aggressor.
Her leg is not moving, the Cello is.
It rides further and further up her bare thigh.
The rest of this affair is up to the music.
She has given all control to the music.
She is no longer creating music, she HAS created it.
It has a life of its own, and is now the conductor.
She holds the Cello closer.
All that lies between her skin and her Cello is the music and her sweat.
Her skin, her music, her sweat and her Cello.
Nothing else in the world matters to her right now.
Nothing else in the world matters to me.
I am floating.