A Single Cello in a Room Unseen - An Erotic Short Story

21 min readNov 24, 2021

When does love die? How does love die? When does passion for a partner become the force that drives that partner away? Can a marriage, string, true, loving, survive the insanity of desperate desire? Can time heal all wounds?

Written by Rebecca Milton
Published by

I say this to my husband, who, I don’t see here right now, but, I am speaking to him. He is the one who will understand. He is the one I want to know how I feel now.

I speak from a place of emotion now. That’s different. You asked what was different. You asked why try again? I am telling you. Trying to tell you. Looking to find a way back. I want to find a way back. Trouble is, I don’t know where back is. Does that make sense?

I speak from a place of emotion now. I can feel it when I speak. I can feel it in my heart, in my head. I can feel it in my toes. I know, crazy, right, which is ironic considering where I am, but it makes sense to me. I want it to make sense to you. I feel it in my hands and toes. I can feel it on my face, on my skin, when I wash in the morning, when I touch my face, I can feel it. I want you to know that. I believe it is what you were asking, what you were wondering about. I was wondering as well. I was wondering as I watched it all happen. I watched, feeling like I was seeing it all from a second floor window. Seeing it all through the lace of curtains ruffled by a summer breeze. Watching it all as if it was not me, not my body, not my choices. I was on the outside, watching someone playing me, doing things in my stead, saying things, filling in the empty silence that came when I opened my mouth. My mouth wasn’t saying those things, the person who was standing in for me was saying them. Like an understudy who suddenly decided to usurp my role and make their big break happen. I watched from the second floor, the fifteenth row. I didn’t feel. Now, I do.

Does that help? Can that be enough for a start? For a do over? Like when we were kids and playing in the back yard or the park or by the brook in the field of Gerber daisies, flooding with color. We’d play, get it wrong, make a mistake, call for a do over. Can I call a do over now? I want to take what has happened and wrap it in a clear plastic bag and then put it…


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