You will be sitting on the hard floor, concrete chilly against your jeans. You will be holding two cardboard-jacketed styrofoam cups of coffee. The half-empty one in your right hand will be yours, as you will have used the hot liquid to ward off the cold. The cup in your left hand will be hers. It will still be full because she will be playing her cello.
The rich dark sound of the cello will make you think of the coffee she ordered—black, no sugar, no cream, no flavor shots, no nothing. You will look at your five-dollar drink, more sugar than coffee, and grimace slightly.
Shelly’s voice will mix with the cello, bouncing off the concrete walls of her apartment’s basement. She will have taken you down here because Mrs. Tolliver in 7A hates loud music, especially classical. Mrs. Tolliver only listens to the Voice and to Keely Smith; she will have no others intrude upon her musical stasis.
You hate classical music too, but you will not say anything. You will be trying to impress Shelly, so you will fake a smile and nod brightly when she asks you if you want to hear her play.
Now you will be here, trying very hard to seem interested in the music rather than in Shelly’s too-tight T-shirt. Looking for another place to rest your eyes, you will watch her arm move back and forth, holding the bow deftly. She will close her eyes, let her head fall back a little, and sing along with her music. She will put her heart into it.
Gradually you will stop feeling the cold being leached from your body. You will begin to set aside thoughts of credit card bills, your job, even your plans to get Shelly into bed tonight. She will sound so different from your favorite sullen rappers. You will not know what she is playing—she told you, but you forgot already—but you will become fascinated by the emotion in her face, her voice, and her cello.
She will stop playing eventually. You will glance at your watch and realize fifteen minutes have passed without a trace, swallowed by Shelly’s throaty voice and smooth cello.
“Well?” she will ask shyly, showing the dimples that made you approach her in line at the Qwik Stop one week ago.
For the first time in a long time, you will give a sincere compliment to a woman without trying to get her into bed.
“Awesome,” you will say. “Keep going.”
