The Subway Chronicles - Title, by Author

2004 CONTEST WINNER

The Cellist
by Libby Cudmore

No one has ever asked me to dance. Through all the middle school dances and the high school prom, no boy, guy or man has ever suggested a slow dance with me to whatever cheesy song the DJ was playing. My then-boyfriend and I danced at my sister’s wedding, but dancing with one’s girlfriend is in the boyfriend contract, which negates the unexpected thrill of, would you like to dance, of course I’ll dance, I’m your damn girlfriend, if we don’t dance rumors will spread.

There is a cellist playing in the subway tunnel between the shuttle and the trains as I walked to the 1 with Ian. We hold hands as though we are lovers, and as the evocative music filled the compressed space with an overwhelming but nameless emotion, a sensation rises in my throat and chest, threatening to burst through my skin and rise to meet the sound.

“We should dance,” Ian suggests, his tone half-jesting.

I don’t answer. Is he serious? Is a man finally asking me to dance, after all this waiting, and would my first dance be on a littered subway platform in front of hundreds of late-night workaholics trying to catch the train home to their martini spouses and Playstation kids? Is that how I want my first dance to be, like having your first kiss in the Wal-Mart parking lot or losing your virginity in the back of a pick-up truck?

Halfway up the stairs, he mutters, “Guess not,” and I turn to look at him over my shoulder.

“Why not?” I ask, forgetting the awkward silliness of the situation. Dancing in the subway? Hell, why not, a man is asking me to dance and I could die a librarian spinster before this chance comes up again.

We turn back down the steps and he leads me over to a space out of the way of all the madness. I place a dollar in the man’s case and Ian bows before taking my hand and pulling me close.

The subways have a unique odor of gum, urine, stale cigarettes and electric oil, but I couldn’t smell that as I lean against his shoulder. Ian, on the other hand, smells like art, clean masculinity, and infinity. I breathe him in as if he were my oxygen, my life-breath. The cellist doesn’t belong here in his tuxedo with his beautiful Italian instrument, so out of place among the usual fare of echoing drummers, bad
guitar players and the creepy puppet man with the piano and the dancing toys. Yet, his music silences the cell-phone chatter and the clack of heels on tile, nothing else sounds as he lost himself in his song.

I didn’t see the graffiti on the walls or the people passing and looking at us as though we were crazy, though I’d like to imagine a lost sense of love stirred within their bellies, a sudden awakening at the sight of two people so in love they don’t care where the music’s playing. His arms enfold me into him, pressing his soft cheek to mine, guiding my footsteps. I’m not the type to let a man lead my dance, but I surrender to him. I am a lady and he is a gentleman in the ballroom of the Times Square terminal between the S and the 1. I take my gaze from Ian only once, and catch the cellist’s eye. He smiles at us as if grateful his music found its intended audience, like he’d written the piece just for himself and us.

The song ends and we clap, he gives us another piano-key smile and his music follows us hauntingly into the labyrinth of the subway tunnels.

Libby Cudmore is a senior majoring in English at Binghamton University, where she was recently named a recipient of Andrew Bergman scholarship in Creative Writing. Her publications include her first novel, Always the Bride, with AnotherChapter, as well as short stories in AboutTeens, Long Story Short (where
she was the featured author for July 2003) and a short essay CosmoGirl. Libby’s work will also appear in the Curious and Curiouser Anthology and in Listen magazine in early 2005.