The notes fill my ears as I walk through the carefully preserved fence of propriety ... I stand at the door. Chris sees me but does not stop. I watch him as he coaxes the instrument to be his. He is sitting on a chair. The instrument is wedged ever so gently between his knees; its neck rests against his shoulder. His hands move, his left hand searching, the right hand gleaning. They have become one, the instrument yielding to his body, his touch. I see myself in his arms. I am the cello. It is me he is caressing. It is I who am responding. The intensity of my desire shocks me. I close my eyes to shut out the image. The music stops abruptly. I open my eyes. He keeps the cello aside. He continues to sit on the chair with his legs still slightly splayed, his eyes intense. The music hangs in the air. He looks at me.I walk towards him.