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.”

For more on Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields here. Other participants stories can be found here.

image © Björn Rudberg

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