Aubrey is holding her again. As he has held her everyday for many weeks. She is his one true love. I watch him from the doorway of his studio, embracing her. I envy the way he lays her body against him, the way his legs fit around her so perfectly, the way they seem made for one another. He told me, when we married, that he would never love another more than me, but I can see it. He adores her. And how can I deny him the beauty and purity of his love? The world is so lacking in a love like theirs. When he slides his bow over her strings, the singing of the vibration, there is nothing like it. Aubrey’s cello is the woman he longs for, the one he desires. Late at night, I know her music fills his dreams. When he and I make love, he is filled with her humming.
Aubrey is playing in legato, the notes flow like water over one another. He is unwilling to part from her. I lean against the doorway to watch. From the corner of his eye, he sees me and looks up sharply. He is still sliding the bow across her strings. His fingers are poised over her delicate neck. He pauses.
“What is it, Sherri?”
“Oh, it’s... it’s nothing.” My reply is weak, he can sense it.
He narrows his eyes. “Honey? You seem...”
Whatever it is I seem, he doesn’t finish. He sighs and turns back to the sheet music before him.
“I should practice a little more. Why don’t you start dinner?”
I nod. Dinner. It is what the cello cannot provide. I go into the kitchen. The music wafts over me. The noise is so strong it fills my chest. I long to be a part of it. I’ve never had a head for the wonders he and the cello can create. When I tried my hand at music, I could not throw my passion into it fully. Now I wish I could, to save myself from loneliness. When Aubrey is not creating music with her for himself, he is performing in the philharmonic orchestra. His love for her has taken him farther than ever his love for me could. And far from me. It is not simply the hour and a half commute, it is that pure passion for her.
And the music he makes is so stunning. I can feel his romance with her in every note. The slow sonatas are a love story in which the prince always finds his princess. When he plays a suite, I see dancers in glittering dresses throw sparkles across a spotless dance floor. Such is the power of their love. I know it is silly, always silly, to be envious of an instrument, which is, by all appearances, inanimate. But she seems to have a soul under Aubrey’s ministrations, and he is unwilling to part with her.
From the studio, I can hear the mood of the piece he is playing seamlessly change. The notes rise and become sharp and quick. This new song is upbeat, almost has a bounce to it. I open the refrigerator, and stare at the contents. I realize how low we are on anything that could possibly pass for nutritious. We- he rather, makes good money (I am a book editor and would  struggle to just make ends meet on my own), however he is so preoccupied with her, he hasn’t bothered to grocery shop, and I have been swamped for the past month. Today really has marked the first day I haven’t had piles of pages to mark up and retype for all of February. I sigh and walk to the front door of our flat.
“Aubrey,” I shout.
The music continues to pour out of his studio.
“I’m going to the grocery store,” I continue half-heartedly.
His music is ceaseless. I gather my coat from the nearby rack and a grey wool scarf. I open the door. The hallway is chilly. I sigh. I have no desire to shop, I realize. I have no desire for anything. I close the door.
No, that is not correct. I have a desire. I desire my husband back. He has been seduced away by the magic carried in his music. I bite my lip, and turn away from the door. I toss my coat and scarf on the floor. I move towards his studio.
He has paused in his music momentarily and is leaning over the gorgeous cello to scribble a few notes to himself. He sees me in the hall.
“I thought you said you were going shopping.”  He pushes a strand of dark hair that has fallen loose from his ponytail behind his ear.
“I’d rather you came with me,” I said quietly. “It’s cold outside and the city is so...” my voice trails off when I see the look on his face.
“Forget I said anything.” I say stupidly. What else can you say to a musician?
But the look he gives me is not what I expect.  His eyes hold mine captive. I remember the first time he caught my gaze from the stage after we were married. He was playing a concerto. I remember the way he played her, as if playing for me, and me alone. The auditorium dimmed, the orchestra became muted, and it was only he and I and the music. The cello was not a figure at all, but a conduit for our love. I think we glowed that night, brighter than any silly star-crossed lovers. The intensity of the gaze he is giving me, in silence, his arms draped uselessly over his cello in his studio, is the same. But, I cannot read its intention. I am afraid of what he will say to me.
“I’ll order out, and go shopping tomorrow okay?” My voice is pleading. I’m not sure what for.
He breaks his gaze and nods. “That’s fine.”
His playing is different now. He is playing spiccato, by hitting her strings with his bow. The song he is playing sounds downcast. My mind conjures images of storm clouds, gathering to form a funnel over some distant plain. I leave the room and wander down the hallway. Our flat is fairly large, painted in warm tones of deep red and occasionally a muted orange. We’re the sort who decorate with Mason jars and Gerber daisies. But despite our efforts, there is a chill in the place that cannot be lifted. Even Aubrey’s love for his cello cannot expel the invisible threads of ice.
I pick up the telephone and dial the number for the pizza parlor a block or so away. I order a large half-pepperoni and half-Hawaiian. Sometimes compromising is easiest. Anyway, I don’t want to consult with him anymore than I can help it. Interrupting his love affair with the music doesn’t seem like the best idea.
I decide to head to the bathroom, right across the hall from me. It has a large, spacious bathtub, the kind with soothing jets. I hardly ever use them, but their comfort is not lost on me. I sit on the side of the tub. I usually shower, so I don’t waste precious time I could be spending changing “their” to “there” on a shoddy manuscript. Besides, this bathtub seems full of memories. I turn the handle on it and warm water gushes out. I take my slippers off and dip my feet in the water.   Over a year ago, I had rushed to show Aubrey a plus sign on a pregnancy test, and he had loved me then, and loved the unborn inside of me. And, a few months later, I had spent almost the entire day in this tub, after a doctor’s appointment, contemplating how my body had become a coffin. I was inconsolable. Aubrey had sat on the toilet next to the bathtub, leaning over me, rubbing my hand. There was nothing for it.
He left the bathroom and came back with his cello, bulky as she was, and sat there and played, and the humming filled my chest as the tears would not stop. He played for me then, but I think he was playing for himself as well. His music has always been where he has thrown himself, and the way he played her that night, he may as well have been sobbing.
I would not return to that day for anything, but he had used the cello to love me. Now he only loves her. And I guess I cannot blame him. After that day, I had a similar one some months later. Children could not grow inside of me. I began to feel like I was a poison to them. And it was Aubrey who became inconsolable. He had never said he wanted children, not aloud, anyway. But the way his face lit up each time I told him, and the way he played when they passed from me... I knew how much he wanted to be a father. Perhaps that is why he prefers her to me. With his cello he can create. She is superior where I have failed.
I kick my feet softly in the water. I realize that Aubrey’s playing has stopped. I hear the front door shut.
“Honey,” he calls from the front of the room. “I have the food.”
There is silence for a moment. Then I hear footsteps coming closer to the bathroom.
“I guess you didn’t hear the door. It’s on the counter if you want any.”
He pokes his head into the doorway, and pauses before speaking. “Sherri, is something wrong?”
I don’t look at him and slowly shake my head. My feet make ripples in the water.
“Have you....” he hesitates. “Have you been crying?”
I don’t answer. I want him to take me in his arms and hold me, but I know he won’t.  I wait a few minutes and he grips the door face, tightly, before turning away.
“Don’t let it get cold,” he says unenthusiastically, as he wanders back down the hall.
I pull my feet out of the water and drain the bathtub. He never takes food into his studio, so he will be sitting at the table, or at the very least, hovering over the counter. Dinner together, even in this state, sounds more appealing than the alternative. I step out on the floor. There aren’t any towels nearby, so water puddles under my feet, and form little footprints on the hardwood floor as I walk into the kitchen and dining area.
As I suspected, Aubrey is leaned over the kitchen counter, methodically chewing on a slice of Hawaiian. He has set a plate out for me near the pizza box. I open the it and take out a slice of pepperoni. I try to smile at him, then give up,  taking the plate and pizza to the table.
“Sherri?” he says after a while. I look up at him. He walks up to the table and sits. He appears to be grasping for words. Then it’s as if he mentally shrugs.
“The new piece is difficult. I keep getting distracted, wanting to play older pieces. They come more naturally, I suppose.”
I nod slowly. “It sounds nice, from what I can hear.”
“It will be better when I can play it smoothly, of course.”
I stare at my plate. Then I stand up.
“Do you want anything to drink?”
“Yeah sure, just orange juice.”
I open the refrigerator, and am again reminded how low our supplies are. “I guess I should have gone shopping. There isn’t any.”
 I pour two glasses of water and bring them back to the table. We both eat. We both sit. Neither of us speaks.
“How has the manuscript been?” He asks after a while.
I shrug. “Nothing to write home about.”
“Maybe you should,” he said after a while.
“What?”
“Take up actually writing instead of tearing other people’s to pieces.”
The suggestion strikes me. I’ve thought of it many times myself, but always come up with excuses, both real and imagined to avoid actually doing it.
“Oh please,” I say, trying to sound amused. “One artist is quite enough in the house.”
“I’m sure you’d be good at it.”
I shake my head. “No, no, I’m... I’m content.”
“But are you really happy?”
I force a smile as I look up at him. “When I’m not, I know it will pass. You just be concerned with getting that piece down in time for the spring concert.”
He sighs and picks up his plate and carries it to the dishwasher.
“It’s not a piece for the spring concert.”
I can’t hide my confusion. “Are you not playing? You are almost always the solo cellist. You can’t possibly be sitting it out.”
“I can be,” he said, rubbing his bottom lip with his long musician’s fingers. “Come here.”

He leads me back to his studio and sits me down on the window seat. With extreme care he picks up his cello from her case and situates her snugly between his knees. He positions his hands across the fingerboard and steadies his bow over her strings. All thoughts leave my head. I have heard him play her all day, but in this instance he has made it clear he actually wants me to hear.  So I listen.
Describing the song he plays without poetry is difficult. There is a sadness to it, but a passion, an immense passion. I can see it in the shift of his expression, in the concentrated frown of his mouth and seriousness of his half-closed eyes. The song trails off into a sweet, deep melody, and then jumps up into lightness with sudden staccato. I’m sure this song is one I’ve never heard before, but there is something familiar to it. It wraps around me, filling me with its deep vibration. I feel the song binding me up, but softly, and carefully. What makes this song different, I realize, is that Aubrey is not playing it to hear the sound his cello makes. He seems to be waiting for something, in the playing, and when he finishes he looks up for my opinion.
“That was....” I begin, standing up.
“For you,” he said quietly.
My eyes widen. I bite my trembling lip.
“Sherri, are you going to leave?” He asked suddenly, looking at intensely.
“Wh-what?” My voice shakes.
“I have seen the way you... Like the rooms you are in no longer matter. Like you are planning on getting out. Of all of this.”
Tears are pooling up in my eyes. I shake my head.
“I don’t even know anymore, Aubrey.”
He puts his cello down, in her box, because she has played her part in this. Then he takes my hand and pulls me close. He embraces me, and the warmth it floods through me is far greater than any music. Or perhaps, constructed of it. I hold on to him, and bury my head in his chest. My heart is beating fast, allegro. But in his chest, I could swear I am hearing symphonies.