Like a newborn

He rested his fingers on her curves, slowly brushing her soft, smooth neck.

Bending down, he breathed in, the smell of wood as still alive now as it would have been all those decades ago, when another master, a craftsman had made her form… lovingly, patiently, as reverently as Andreas felt now.

She still gave him the same thrill holding her as he had when he had first seen her, touched her, held her in his arms like a newborn. Of course she wasn’t a newborn, she’d had several owners before Andreas but he knew he’d want for no-one else; inanimate or animate. Real women held no interest for him. He had tried once or twice to please his mother but now she couldn’t remember who he was, he was free. Free to play, free to love, free to be who he’d always wanted to be; alone with ‘her’. She’d not been his first of course. She was too exquisite for him to have practiced on but his mother had seen his talent from the first time bow struck string.

‘Strike’, a word his mother would have used. A hard word like her, only now their roles had reversed; she’d become the child – round the clock care to his round the world touring.

She’d told him his father had been musical. She’d tried to play, with the first violin, but had no patience, no talent. Andreas’ sister Sophia, the second child, second at everything, which wasn’t how their mother had worked and she’d hardly noticed when Sophia grew ill. “Weak”, their mother had called her, even when she wasn’t. The doctor was finally called in to “sort her out”, only there was no sorting to be done. Their mother, for the first time in her life, had left it too late – the schedule overlooked for anyone but him. So he’d done everything for her, Sophia, lead his life for both of them and now, as he looked at the priceless Stradivarius, at the side of the stage, he smiled, stroked her neck and put on his smile.


Photography courtesy of

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