The cello sat in a corner of the café, always un-played.
Annette tuned the strings, polished the spruce, maple, ebony, and rosewood, all for that special one night of the year.
The café closed early – no one minded. She’d pour herself an ice-cold class of sauvignon-blanc, whispering, “Alexei, it’s time” And, like magic, the cello would play – soaring solos that brought tears of joy to Annette’s eyes.
Then, when his night to play was over, she felt his arms around her, a soft kiss upon her lips and a whisper in her ear, “Until next year.”
image © Björn Rudberg