A Private Concert

It was quite early. The morning was crisp, and it was cold enough to be wearing a jacket in the sun, which I always find to be a rather weird sensation.
My rehearsal wouldn't start until 11:00, which meant I had three lonely hours in the city, with a cello and a fully charged cell phone. I take a bus up to the library, admiring my idea, until I come to the glass doors and realize, with a bit of a panic, that it is 8:00 and the library doesn't open until nine, and that man with blond hair is starting to make his way over to me to talk. I skirt back down the hill, my cello hitting the back of my legs and my shoes making controlled clicking noises on the pavement.
Coffee, I think, I'll go get coffee and then head back up and read. It's okay. You're safe. Safe.
The Starbucks is, of course, thronging with business people and jamming (unwieldy) through the door is no ego boost. I am also the youngest, the smallest, and wearing, in hindsight, a rather loud green plaid. I pay for a tall skinny vanilla latte (because I find things I love and I stick with them.). And then there's the awkward waiting in the queue, mistakenly reaching out once or twice for what I think is mine. They give me a grande instead of a tall and I tell the barista, who waves me off with "Do you want a grande then?".
And then I'm stuck because it's only 8:30 and I have a larger quantity of coffee then I expected and the library is still closed. I walk to the park, that overlooks the water. I sit on a bench. There is a homeless man sleeping, and a couple of others that I can make out in the distance, talking. It's silent. I sit, with my cello against my knee, stuck and a little frightened.
After a moment, I lean down and undo the zipper of my case. I slide my cello out and the strings make little muffled fifth noises. I bring out the end pin, and then anchor it into the gravel. I pull out my music and use my coffee cup as a paper weight.
And then because it is safe and familiar and wonderful, I play. I play Faure and Martinu and Bach and Grieg, and anything that happens to sound right. I'm playing handfuls of wrong notes, but these people don't know or care. I play for only me.
People wander into the park. One guy, this photographer, asks me if he can take my picture. As he does he says "I came to take some landscapes, but I didn't expect some young girl playing the cello." and I say,
"Yeah. I didn't either." I'm embarrassed then, because of the attention. Attention is nice when I'm expecting it, or wanting it. But not when I'm relishing the lack of it.
Another guy homeless guy wanders by and growls, "Sounds nice," before crossing to the other side of the park. A dog barks at me, sniffing in vain at the wood of my instrument. A group of exercising women look at me curiously.
I play until my fingers hurt, not stopping. I play scales and symphonies and solos, and riffs. And then my phone rings:
"Hello?"
"Hey, where do you want to meet?"
For awhile, I'd forgotten my rehearsal.
"Oh."
"How about the fountain?"
"Yeah, okay, see you then." I click the phone off. I sip my now cold coffee. And then I pack up my cello and leave the park, my private concert in my wake.