blue danube

by Danielle Rufrano

Rosin has a piny smell like turpentine and horsehair. My fingers stick together, gritty with its crystals.

In middle school, an upperclassman trapped me in the cello closet with him during orchestra class.

His skin was caramel. His eyes, cool patches of green, like shaded grass. He was a handsome boy. Popular. Athletic. There were rumors that this closet was soundproof.

His body inflated, blocking the door. Calloused fingers scratched against denim pockets. Feet spread and on tiptoes. His nostrils flared. When he breathed out, puffs of rosin dust swirled.

And then I elbowed him in the stomach, rushed through the rows of students, cautious not to trip over my laces, the feet of other students, picked up my violin, tucked it under my chin, and played “Blue Danube”.

Photo of Danielle Rufrano

BIO: Danielle Rufrano is a writer from the East End of Long Island. Her prose is forthcoming in miniMAG (May 2026). She is currently at work on her debut novel, which is under consideration by multiple literary agencies. You can find her on Instagram at @duskandrubies.