The Cello Case

Cathy decided she would not apologize for taking up space again, not even when the ticket clerk at Vienna’s Westbahnhof had looked at her single-berth ticket and then at his booking screen with mild confusion. She had paid for the berth, and she intended to occupy it fully, legs crossed, spine straight, refusing to shrink herself into the corners of her own life just to make strangers comfortable. It was a small rebellion, but after thirty years of making herself smaller to fit into doorways other people built, it felt like a victory.

She settled onto the thin mattress, the Austrian countryside already blurring into streaks of indigo and black outside the small window. The compartment was quiet, save for the rhythmic clacking of the wheels. She was alone, or so she thought, until the corridor light clicked on.

The door slid open, and a man filled the frame. He was tall—impossibly tall—with a cello case strapped to his back that looked heavy enough to anchor a ship. He stepped inside, the air instantly feeling thinner, more charged. He didn't look confused; he looked resigned.