I bring my fiddle to Central Park on a blustery day. The trees are noisy and writhing. Traffic on 5th Avenue honks and blares.

But as I start to play, the world falls still and all is silent, save for my violin.

Over by the benches, a pigeon hangs in the air, mid-takeoff. It looks startled and ridiculous, a foot from the ground, its legs dangling uselessly beneath it.

A Coke can hovers just above the rim of a garbage can. Three feet away, a man stands with his hand outstretched, his fingers slightly curled from imparting spin to the can. His brows are knitted with concentration. His aim isn’t perfect, but the can’s going to go in—just.

A jogger is caught mid-stride. She balances on the ball of her left foot, leaning forward at an impossible angle. Physics dictate that she must either thrust her left foot forward to catch her weight or topple to the ground. But she does neither. She waits there, defying gravity.

It’s so peaceful, here in this motionless Manhattan.

I play a meandering adagio, half remembered and half improvised. It doesn’t seem to matter what I play. A single note is enough to stop time, but I like to fill the silence with something more than that. It feels pure, this private music.

I yearn to stroll the streets while I play. I would like to explore this instant in the life of New York City, but as soon as I put bow to string I find myself rooted to the spot, my legs frozen in time, like the pigeon, and the jogger, and the Coke can. In vague terror, I wonder if I’ll age faster above the waist than below. Will my boobs age and sag while my butt remains young and firm?

I bring my piece to its end. The bird flaps clumsily into the air. The Coke can bounces off the rim and rattles into the garbage. The jogger huffs and puffs on her way by. The world is full of noise and motion again.