By Jack Stratton

Vibrations are odd things. Alone in her room at fifteen, Charlotte played for herself. She played because no one was home and she could take the towel from over the strings and just play. No inhibitions, no holding back. The cello swelled with sound, and the walls of her tiny bedroom seemed to shake with the vibrations. Vibrations she could feel through her body and between her legs.

Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach.

Her father, a tall imposing man, had been very forceful in his announcement that all of his children would play a musical instrument. A real instrument, not the guitar or some such silliness. The piano for Michael. The flute for lovely Yasmine. For Charlotte, there would be the violin.

Everyone followed father’s instructions except for the last.

The violin just didn’t feel right to her. She found the high register piercing. It sounded shrill in her hands, though she had certainly heard it attain beautiful heights. It didn’t hold her attention, not like the cello. The cello was real, with its almost human voice-like tone. Ever since the first time she sat down and had the monstrous curving thing placed between her legs, she knew.

It may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that Charlotte’s father had played the cello when he was growing up in Tehran. He eventually moved to the contrabass, which nearly destroyed his hands and back. After he moved to America, he started teaching music and left his huge instrument in the basement to warp and ruin.

It angered him that she went for the cello. Everyone knew it, but he was too proud to say anything. After all, it was a good instrument, a classical instrument and she excelled at it. In a way, it was meant to be. Charlotte seemed to be born for the cello with her large hands and powerful fingers. As her classmate once pointed out, she even had the dimensions of a cello, tall, with a large bust, a thin waist, very wide hips, and an ample bottom.

She got all of that from her father’s side, along with her dark hair and the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Her brother and sister had darker skin, like their mother, who often told them she was descended from Persian royalty.

Music didn’t end up being a part of Charlotte’s college life. Computers took up most of her studies. Some would note her particularly forceful typing style. She eventually purchased a special keyboard with little rubber dampeners so that she could work into the night without keeping her roommate up.

She tried to keep up with music. She listened to her favorite pieces, moving from huge symphonic works to chamber music. She played from time to time in the small rehearsal space her university had in their sickly music department.

After graduation, her cello stayed in her closet for a long time. A few closets, actually. Back at home, then at her first apartment, then at her first apartment that didn’t have roommates.

Being young and motivated and self-disciplined and very good with computers served Charlette well. She made her way to New York City. She was promoted in her first six months.

When she finally had time to breathe, she had her cello restrung and cleaned and got it back shiny and new looking. She played once again with the towel over the strings and found her fingers were still strong. She eventually found a flyer in her local coffee house of an amateur quartet looking for a cellist.

The organizer of the group was the lead violinist. His name was Malcolm, and he had once played in a Philharmonic, but had since retired from professional music and was an administrator at a large conservatory.

He was tall and thin, with very dark skin and very keen eyes. He was from the Ivory Coast and had a very particular way of speaking, sometimes forgetting himself and lapsing into French.

Leah was the violist. She was tight-lipped and almost never spoke, the oldest among them, in her sixties. She had a mathematical brain and an uncanny ability to play almost anything put in front of her. She had retired early from music to raise her three daughters, but had once played in a symphony out west somewhere.

Anna was the other violinist. She was nearly as intense as Malcolm, and Charlotte often wondered if they were lovers. Lovers not being a term she would normally use, but it seems right for the two of them.

Like so many things in Charlotte's life, the quartet started as a diversion, but soon took over. She hadn’t made many friends since graduating from college and moving to a big city. The company she worked for was a bit of a boys club and she tended to work hard and leave it all at the office, not wanting to follow her co-workers to the douche sports bars near the office.

She instead spent her evenings practicing, either alone or with Anna.