by Miles H. Rost
Mark lifted his head up from his book, as he heard the sweet sounds of a cello waft over him. Within the confines of the coffee shop, this was a perfect sound at a perfect moment.
He looked around and spied the young cellist, wearing a beautiful white cashmere cable-knit sweater and a flowing brown skirt. She looked up at him through garnet-rimmed glasses and strands of wavy brown hair, smiling.
“So, I finally got your attention.”
“Cindy? Why did you want my attention?”
“You told me you didn’t like cellos. They didn’t rock.”
“I’m here to prove they can.”
The first strains of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” rose from the cello, and Mark instantly knew he was going to eat humble pie.