Shrinking Viola

He might be handsome. He might be extraordinarily handsome. She hopes so, anyway. He might look like an exotic prince from a faraway kingdom. Strong nose, small lips. His eyes might be brown, green, grey, glow in the dark, but she's never been close enough to tell for sure.

At most, she's seen the nape of his neck, the regrowth of his dyed brown locks, knuckles, fingers. Gloved hands, clean clipped fingernails, shivering in the cold when wintertime. It's the best she can do.

When they pack up after rehearsal, First Cello always has to run to some laboratory class early.

"It's mandatory we attend lab class. Participation goes towards term mark." Sixth Viola hears him murmur one week nearing the end of practice. The conductor's more than pissed, but lets him pack up his instrument hastily and drag it away.

"Practice your solos."

"Thank you," First Cello inclines his head.

Always thank you, never thanks, that husk in his voice getting caught in his throat as he leaves, without ever turning in her direction. He doesn't stick around any longer so she can't examine him more than she does from her seat.

Nameless, faceless. Anonymity; it's kind of enigmatic and alluring and dark, and kind of annoying at the same time, because all she wants to do is get to know the boy who plays the first cello like his fingers are made of magic.

"How hard can it be? Just talk to him." Eighth Violin mutters while tuning her strings.

"When, though?" Sixth Viola clunks her music stand into place. Shrinking violets don't grow on the same pedestals as crown jewels of florae in a garden. They wilt in crevices, waiting until their petals crack and dry in the sunlight.

Eighth violin stares at her openly, "When he arrives at rehearsal."

"But he's always late to arrive."

"Then, when he leaves rehearsal."

"But he's always early to leave."

Eighth Violin shakes her head and huffs in disbelief. "Man, what a flake. You do not want a guy like that in your life."

Sixth Viola sighs because she's biased. "He's probably busy with senior year stuff."

"Then he's probably one of those guys." Her friend shakes her head apologetically, "You're gonna end up waiting 352 years for a reply to your text messages. He'll take exam study and work over anniversary dinners. You're gonna date for 20 years before he pops the question."

Good thing Sixth Viola is a patient person.

She just shrugs in response, "You don't know that."

Like always, First Cello bursts through the doors of the music hall, face wrapped in a scarf that covers his mouth and nose. Practice was due to start five minutes prior. He mumbles his apology to the conductor through the fabric. He's let off the hook, as usual.

"Tune, then flip to L'Ocean, First Cello."

Their ensemble piece is some French ballade from a choir movie, Caresse sur l'Ocean, the title of which she can't pronounce let alone sing, but she can hum the hell out of it.

He inclines his head and Sixth Viola gets a glimpse of him removing his scarf, gently unwinding it from his neck and placing it on the floor beside his feet.

The doors to the hall are directly out of her line of sight, and he always has his scarf up like a guard against the world. She stays put and listens to First Cello quickly tuning his strings to pitch perfection.