prelude, cello suite #1

I was late for class. It was really stupid to get the 11:30 am music history class when I had a 10 o'clock ballet class that never ended at 11:30 and I was always rushing to history with my hair still in a bun, sweat glistening on my neck and forehead, and the ribbons of my pointe shoes hanging out of my bag and flapping in the wind.

At that time, the gate beside what used to be the canteen was still open to anyone who walked through it and I went through there to cross the lobby of the college to get to my class - much faster than going around the long way and entering through the front gate. Nobody was usually in the lobby except for the odd loner quietly studying behind one of the pillars. That day, it was Miguel.

He sat on a chair he pulled out from one of the classrooms and between his legs sat his cello. He was practicing - the notes were not perfect, but that's what happens when you practice. His eyes were closed, even if the sheet music stood in front of him in its little stand. The notes may not have been perfect yet but he knew the piece by heart. Hell, I knew it by heart, from all the times we would listen to it in his car - he was playing the Prelude of Johann Sebastian Bach's Cello Suite #1. We would talk of that one day when he would play this suite live for my recital and how wonderful it would be.

Well, I would always hope it was wonderful, if only Miguel wasn't so opinionated about the kind of dance the music deserved. Sometimes, I was tempted to yank his ponytail really hard just to make him shut up.

The lobby was a good place to practice - the music bounced off the walls and floor and filled the entire space with melancholy, more so because the sound was made by a cello. His eyes were closed and his body slightly swayed along to the notes that dipped and rose and dipped and rose and tripped over each other. He looked so beautiful.

Then, he stumbled over a note and opened his eyes in exasperation, his eyebrows familiarly bunching towards each other. That's when he knew he wasn't alone in the lobby, lifted his face and saw me standing there, watching him. His eyes, his beautiful beautiful eyes, those eyes that looked like they held all the misery of the world in them, bored into mine. My breath caught in my throat, just as I was caught in the act of actually outright watching him. I was thinking, he'll never let me hear the end of this.

Instead, he smiled and said, "Hey."

I smiled back and went on my way, beads of sweat running down the side of my face, the ribbons of my pointe shoes flapping behind me. I didn't want to care whether or not he was staring after me. A few strides later, I heard him start to play again.