the dust off the case before she could even open it.
In her mind, she could feel the neck of the cello rest against her shoulder. She could feel her fingers press on the strings. She could hear the mellow tone that made the wood vibrate, which she could feel wherever she touched the instrument.
It was just a few weeks ago that Tom had waved a sweeping hand at "your stuff" in that corner of the room that made the exercise room cramped. He was absolutely right. The apartment's living areas were nice, but the bedrooms were tiny. It would be nice if the flotsam and jetsam of their previous lives fitted neatly in a cupboard.
The cello would be worth a few thousand dollars. If she wasn't going to play again, it was just useless money sitting there. She had even looked up a few places where she could advertise it. But then she imagined someone calling about it, coming to have a look at it, and walking out the door with the thing that had been such a big part of her life. Her eyes became teary just from thinking about it.
So she had told Tom, "Maybe later."
Tom had sighed and walked out the door. He hated mess, and she completely understood why. You should see his mother's house, with shelves upon shelves of dusty, yellowed and dirty knick-knacks, often stacked haphazardly. It always smelled of cats. That place would turn anyone into a neat freak. And she liked the apartment tidy.
But... sell her cello?
Chapter 2
"H ello, honey."
Justine turned around.
Tom came into the kitchen from the hall. His suit was a very stylish grey, with a crisp white shirt and a red tie. He wore his short hair combed back from his forehead, but it was his expressive mouth that attracted her. He had a strong, masculine face, with the hint of a tan from his beach runs. His eyes were grey.
He came to her and kissed her on the lips.
"Why are you wet?" His company provided a car spot so he drove to work and had managed to avoid getting wet.
"Didn't you see the rain?"
"You were caught in that storm?"
"I was."
"Why didn't you call me? That's why we have the car, so that we don't get wet, and that we don't have to catch smelly public transport when it's raining."
He went to the kitchen bench and gathered up the plastic bags that Justine had forgotten to pack away and that lay all over the counter. He bundled them into a ball and stuck those inside the cloth bag that hung inside one of the kitchen cupboards for that purpose.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming home early." She would have put those bags away sooner.
"It's a special day today."
"A special day?" Justine wondered what she had forgotten. Not his birthday, not their anniversary. Then sometimes he would declare "special days" when he'd done well on the share market or signed a big client at work.
"Let's go out to dinner tonight."
"Oh yes, I feel like going to Pietro's." Their pizzas were the best ever.
"It's a special day. We need something more classy than that. I've booked a table at The Terminal."
"Ooh! That's certainly very classy." Was there a reason for spending that much money? She looked down. "Hmm. I better get changed then."
"Yes. I'd like to see you in something nice."
Justine went to the bedroom and opened the door to the wardrobe. For a while, she stood staring into the mass of office clothes and gym clothes and casual party clothes. A few of her dresses were a bit more formal. She'd wear the red one—no, it had tight sleeves that would be too hot if the muggy weather decided to stick around, and it being late November, that was likely. Maybe the blue one. She pulled it out and held it in front of her. She liked the blue dress. It suited the sleek darkness of her hair. But she'd worn it the last time when they went to The Terminal. The people who worked and came there were all hung up about fashion. They would think she had no other clothes.
She hung it back in the wardrobe. She pushed aside a few business suits and found a grey velvet dress that was
In her mind, she could feel the neck of the cello rest against her shoulder. She could feel her fingers press on the strings. She could hear the mellow tone that made the wood vibrate, which she could feel wherever she touched the instrument.
It was just a few weeks ago that Tom had waved a sweeping hand at "your stuff" in that corner of the room that made the exercise room cramped. He was absolutely right. The apartment's living areas were nice, but the bedrooms were tiny. It would be nice if the flotsam and jetsam of their previous lives fitted neatly in a cupboard.
The cello would be worth a few thousand dollars. If she wasn't going to play again, it was just useless money sitting there. She had even looked up a few places where she could advertise it. But then she imagined someone calling about it, coming to have a look at it, and walking out the door with the thing that had been such a big part of her life. Her eyes became teary just from thinking about it.
So she had told Tom, "Maybe later."
Tom had sighed and walked out the door. He hated mess, and she completely understood why. You should see his mother's house, with shelves upon shelves of dusty, yellowed and dirty knick-knacks, often stacked haphazardly. It always smelled of cats. That place would turn anyone into a neat freak. And she liked the apartment tidy.
But... sell her cello?
Chapter 2
"H ello, honey."
Justine turned around.
Tom came into the kitchen from the hall. His suit was a very stylish grey, with a crisp white shirt and a red tie. He wore his short hair combed back from his forehead, but it was his expressive mouth that attracted her. He had a strong, masculine face, with the hint of a tan from his beach runs. His eyes were grey.
He came to her and kissed her on the lips.
"Why are you wet?" His company provided a car spot so he drove to work and had managed to avoid getting wet.
"Didn't you see the rain?"
"You were caught in that storm?"
"I was."
"Why didn't you call me? That's why we have the car, so that we don't get wet, and that we don't have to catch smelly public transport when it's raining."
He went to the kitchen bench and gathered up the plastic bags that Justine had forgotten to pack away and that lay all over the counter. He bundled them into a ball and stuck those inside the cloth bag that hung inside one of the kitchen cupboards for that purpose.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming home early." She would have put those bags away sooner.
"It's a special day today."
"A special day?" Justine wondered what she had forgotten. Not his birthday, not their anniversary. Then sometimes he would declare "special days" when he'd done well on the share market or signed a big client at work.
"Let's go out to dinner tonight."
"Oh yes, I feel like going to Pietro's." Their pizzas were the best ever.
"It's a special day. We need something more classy than that. I've booked a table at The Terminal."
"Ooh! That's certainly very classy." Was there a reason for spending that much money? She looked down. "Hmm. I better get changed then."
"Yes. I'd like to see you in something nice."
Justine went to the bedroom and opened the door to the wardrobe. For a while, she stood staring into the mass of office clothes and gym clothes and casual party clothes. A few of her dresses were a bit more formal. She'd wear the red one—no, it had tight sleeves that would be too hot if the muggy weather decided to stick around, and it being late November, that was likely. Maybe the blue one. She pulled it out and held it in front of her. She liked the blue dress. It suited the sleek darkness of her hair. But she'd worn it the last time when they went to The Terminal. The people who worked and came there were all hung up about fashion. They would think she had no other clothes.
She hung it back in the wardrobe. She pushed aside a few business suits and found a grey velvet dress that was
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