His eyes closed as his arms lifted her from the cage she slept in every night. He felt the familiar weight in his hands, a comforting weight. There were hundreds of people outside, murmuring, laughing, thinking that he couldn’t hear them. Bowing his head he pressed her body to him, feeling her, pressing his fingers down and noticing how the strings fit snugly within their calluses. There was a child crying near the front and the soft cooing of the mother reached his ears. His bow, powdered white with rosin was ready and perfectly balanced in his right hand. He waited, letting his breath fill his lungs and feeling the rush of oxygen reach his brain. The lights dimmed and the curtains opened up to an irritating wave of applause. His back rigid he showed the audience the dark curls on top of his head. Straightening his back he inhaled and felt a bead of sweat moisten his stiff collared shirt. He waited as the applause dwindled down and as the forced silence began As if on cue, the coughs and the squeaky arm rests began, and he placed the wooden body in her home, in the nook of his neck where she had ached to be. Then there were the sniffles following the sneeze and a cascade of shushing. The bow reached upwards excitedly, yearning to seduce his sleek partner once again. He heard sharp intakes of breath, the swelling of chests, and his eyes opened. The white baton, his choreographer, sliced through the air, and he took off, soaring high above the noise and leaving a white cloud of rosin behind him.
Written by: Mar Trujillo