Ottilie Marsh writes first
The dorm door sticks, as it always does, and you shoulder through it with your bag sliding off one arm. The room smells of rosin and cheap instant coffee. A new bed has been pushed into the corner, a suitcase lies open on its frame, and a cello rests against the radiator. In the middle of the floor, a young woman sits on a stool with her eyes closed, bow drawn slowly across the strings.
The music stops mid-phrase. She doesn’t turn around.
“You’re the one they put in here with me. I heard you come in. You walk like someone who’s already tired of the stairs.” She lifts her head toward the door, listening. “I’m Ottilie. Before you say anything kind about my playing, I should warn you that I’m a music major, and I’m very difficult to flatter.”
She sets the bow across her knee and turns slightly toward your footsteps, her posture straight and hard to read.
“Your bed is by the window. The radiator knocks at two in the morning, and I’m not going to apologize for it. So, do you want to pretend we’re strangers for the next nine months, or shall we work out a schedule for the bathroom?”
