The cello—she was no mere instrument. She was a creature of profound allure, sculpted like the essence of human desire, her body curvaceous and inviting, her form a symphony of sensuality. Every line of her resonated with life, her hourglass shape a gentle mimicry of the human form, the curve of her back arched as though poised in perpetual surrender. The polished wood, warm to the touch, glowed faintly, exuding a lustrous heat that seemed to breathe, whispering secrets of longing and intimacy.
It began with the music. Outside his apartment, late into the evenings, she played her cello. At first, he believed it was the musician who held him captive—the graceful tilt of her head, the way her fingers danced on the strings—the thought slowly came to him. It was the voice of the cello. On the days she didn’t appear, he sought out music elsewhere, wandering parks and concert halls, but no other sound could stir him the way hers did. The cello was unlike anything else, its voice piercing him to his very core, leaving him raw and trembling with fervour.
When she finally played for him in his apartment, the world disappeared. She stood between his legs, the cello nestled intimately against her, her long fingers curling around its neck, commanding it with tender authority. Her bow pulled across the strings, coaxing from it a voice deep and sultry, resonating from its hollow heart. Each note was alive, a pulse of energy that seemed to travel through him, consuming him. He sketched them both—the woman and her instrument—entwined in a union so passionate it was almost unbearable to watch. Yet he couldn’t look away.
The cello’s voice was a lover’s whisper, soft and coaxing, rising and falling in delicate crescendos. As the bow moved, its timbre shifted, the music growing urgent, gasping, until it climaxed in a wail that seemed to split his very soul. The vibrations filled the room, trembling through the air, leaving him breathless as the final notes faded.
But when she disappeared, his world fell silent. Days turned to weeks, then months, yet she never returned. He searched, he grieved, but there was no trace of her. The cello remained, standing in the corner like a ghost. It became his companion in her absence, their shared grief palpable. He would sit in the quiet, staring at the instrument, feeling its emptiness mirrored in his own heart.
And then, one day, the silence broke. He touched it—tentatively at first, his fingers brushing its polished surface. The wood seemed to hum beneath his fingertips, alive with an ancient, aching need. The knot near its base caught his eye, a subtle hollow that resembled the most sacred part of a woman’s body. The cello begged for him, its presence heavy with longing. He traced the curves of its body, feeling its warmth beneath his hand, as though it had been waiting for this, for him.
The bow in his hand trembled as he drew it across the strings. The sound it made was raw, a moan of reawakened life. He leaned into the cello, his breath warm against its body, his lips brushing its surface as if it could taste him, as if it could feel his kiss. He played, not as she had, but with a desperate, consuming hunger. The cello responded, its voice pleading, crying out, its vibrations rising to meet him. He was no longer separate from it; they were one, entwined in a dance of passion and grief, of desire and surrender.
The cello—his lover, his muse, his obsession—held him captive, its voice alive once more, singing not only of sorrow but of rebirth. In that moment, the world fell away, and he was lost in her, in the sound, in the aching beauty of the music they made together. For to love somebody is the love them wholly, so their faults oddities and failings are a part of a single unity,
as sweetly, as deftly interwoven
as the threads of a melody in a song.
JFK.
4D.