An Open Letter to the Cello Player on 7th and E Street

This is the letter that I’ve written for the cello player on 7th and E Street. I would have delivered it, if I actually meant any of it and/or I was an absolutely crazy person. Unfortunately, neither apply in this situation. However, I did want to share with you the pain of heartbreak, unrequited love, and the pang of spending entirely too much money on gourmet cupcakes.

Hey you.
I don’t know your name—just simply “Cello Player Who Sits at 7th and E Every Afternoon.” I wanted to write this to you because, well, it’s time I explain myself. Okay, it’s time that I explain us. You see, we met for the first time almost a week ago. It will actually be a week tomorrow. #HappyAnniversary! I passed you on the street and there you were, playing your cello. I’m pretty sure you were playing “Secrets” by One Republic. It’s one of my favorites—oh, you too? How ironic. Anyway, I immediately thought, “Sigh. This might be the person. You know, the person.” But alas, I came back to my office. I didn’t say anything until I asked my friend Maeve what I should do to which she said, “WWTD.” I’m assuming you don’t understand what that means—What Would Taylor Do? Yes, Taylor Swift. Because you play cello, I’m sure that sounds incredibly bass base to you; I apologize.
But I followed through, and I went back downstairs. I wanted to say something or impress you, but I didn’t know how, so I bought cupcakes. I took one for myself because, lesbihonest, it’s cupcakes. Then I took the other one, opened up the box, said, “Great cello playing. Hope you like cupcakes. –Justin” and then put my number. A friend pointed out that I gave you singular cupcake so technically the plurality might have led you to believe that someone else took the second cupcake, but “Hope you like cupcake” seemed weird. I did what felt right. You stole my heart, so I stole your extra cupcake.
Anyway, I gave it to you and you smiled because (a) liked me, (b) really like cupcakes, or (c) have nice manners. I hoped for a text or a call, but alas, that didn’t happen either. I was left behind, like a bow with worn out hairs. And let me tell you, you were my first and my last One Cupcake Stand. I know that I was kind of aggressive, but that’s just the city we live in. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love flies by you going 400 miles an hour, so if you don’t watch out, love will pass you by. You played your harmonious melodies and drew me in and then left me out in the cold. (Quite literally—it’s been frigid in DC lately.) You are a cello tease.

I’m not saying anything would have happened. But I can tell you what could have. I had a whole slew of puns like “Cello there, how are you?” and “Bach dirty to me,” but we’ll never get to use those, will we? I imagined it going really well and then one day, we’d spend our lives together. We’d lounge around after a long day. You’d get up and fix some type of drink and then play something simple on a stringed instrument, and then I would… watch. Because that’s pretty much the limitation of my skill set—looking at things… and cooking. Oh, and last night I found out that I can do a really good version of Forrest Whitaker’s eyes, but that’s neither here nor there. I had a life planned. A world that could have belonged to us, but it was over before it started.
I consider crying sometimes when I think about it—the situation, your cello, that cupcake… life, really. But I don’t because as Amy Winehouse once said, “My tears dry on their own.” But my biggest issue is that you continue to return to the corner of the street that I work on. You sit there, smugly, playing some classical piece and you see me walk by for my tri-daily trip to CVS to pick up an assortment of necessities. You don’t even say a word. I am Adam Sandler in a remake of 50 First Dates, except it’s not 50 First Dates. It’s 50 First Break-Ups. And then I think of that cupcake. Do you know how much white people pay for cupcakes? That was like, nearly $4.00. That’s the price of 2 cakes in 1962. For all intents and purposes, let’s look at it that way. I bought you two 1962 cakes, and you didn’t even care. Sometimes I wonder if you even ate it. You probably are gluten-free. God, you would be gluten free.
You might have even ruined the cello, no, ALL string instruments for me. And that sucks because I really love string instruments. You took Vitamin String Quartet from me, and that’s almost harder because everything they do is fantastic. They’ve literally covered every song in existence. For God’s sake they did “The Best of Nickelback” and “The Best of Nickelback 2.” I didn’t even know there was enough Nickelback to make a “Best Of” album, let alone, two. And you know what? I probably even enjoyed them. That’s how amazing they are, and that’s the amount of damage you’ve done. The only thing I want to thank you for is taking a little more Nickelback out of my life. For that, I am truly grateful.
It all makes sense now. I may not be the kind of guy you’re into. I’m commercial and fun and witty and mainstream. You sit on the corner playing your cello and you’re interesting and shit. It’s whatever. But you remember—it was mainstream music that brought us together, and it was your inability to love that tore us apart. As I close, I quote Taylor one more time, “I should have said no. I should have gone home. I should have thought twice before I put down a mortgage on two freaking cupcakes.”
In Christ,

3 thoughts on “An Open Letter to the Cello Player on 7th and E Street

      1. Oh no! You are worth “binge-ing” too. Made my partner read everything too, it does not help that he is from the states and now lives abroad. When you wrote the Dominos open letter, he felt like writing one as well telling Dominos he will be the one to take over you ( but oh well, no Dominos here :)).

        P.s I love that you love Grey’s Anatomy.

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