it matters

I walked into the lobby of my condo building, just missing the evening's first spits of rain. It occurred to me that my cello case might not be waterproof.

I intended to go straight up to my condo to practice with the bow while the lesson was still fresh in my head. I'd had trouble with bowing in the past week - my right hand kept cramping up. Ben-the-cello-teacher helped me adjust my bow grip, and I got through the lesson with no pain at all. I wanted to practice with the new grip to make sure I didn't forget his instructions.

As I climbed the steps, the door on the right opened. My round, bald-headed, Buddy-Holly-bespectacled, suspender-wearing neighbor trudged out with a trashbag. He likes to chat. His chats can last for an hour or more if you're not careful. I think he's lonely. His sister died two years ago. I met her a few times. She could barely walk. Their condo was on the second floor, so getting her out of the building required major effort with a flight of stairs to deal with. I heard them talk a lot. What else is there to do when it takes ten minutes to get down the stairs? His health isn't much better than hers was. He's mentioned to me (several times) that he needs his hip replaced soon, and he reeks of cigar smoke.

"Hi!" he said. "I didn't know you played the viola." His voice sounded like he gargled with rocks on a regular basis.

"Cello," I corrected. Ben's instructions were just starting to get fuzzy around the edges. I didn't want to be rude, but I wasn't in the mood to chat. I had bowing to do.

"Oh," my neighbor said, and coughed. "I get them mixed up. What's the difference?"

"Size," I said, and mounted the next flight of stairs.