Raoul must still be feeling ill, for he still rests throughout the day and falls asleep early in the evening on the small sofa in the den. I drag him upstairs while he stumbles awake in front of me, and place him comfortably in bed. We snuggle as he dozes, and I too finally fall asleep. It is peaceful and sweet. I feel as though I have finally found a friend in my life.

In the morning, we wake together and play innocently in bed. He tickles me, I push him away, and we giggle a lot before going down to eat muffins for breakfast.

I do not think of Erik at all.

That night, however, he takes me into the study where there is an old phonoautogram. "I want you to dance with me," he says passionately, drawing me in close to him and smiling at me.

Anticipation—or dread?—curls inside my stomach. My hair is not up and I am not even wearing a pretty gown… Why does he want to dance with me?

"I- I am not a very good dancer," I say stupidly. My brain has gone oddly fuzzy.

Raoul lets out a hearty laugh. "You are very funny. Come, my little ballerina. Show me all your finest moves. It is music for you."

This is a kind of intrusion that I cannot forgive. I do not want Raoul's music.

"I don't want to dance," I say blankly, trying vainly to pull away from him without being too obvious. "Not—not with music."

He hesitates, but his reply has no hint of irritation. "No music. That is fine. I understand. Will you still dance with me?"

He is asking so nicely and he is so handsome in his dark blue buttoned shirt. The dim light from the kitchen reflects in his eyes. I am so in love with the way he looks at me, with the way he is so very kind to me. Not many people were kind to me after Papa died. I must be a horrible person to consider turning down a dance with my husband.

We mostly sway together in the small room, the lack of music providing us with no common tempo. It is slow… I try to imagine we are at our wedding, where everything was laughter and happiness, and people were smiling and Raoul was smiling… Now he is not smiling, and he is close to me, and his lips keep pressing on my face, and I can't breathe…

I think he is trying to be romantic as he pulls on my dress to lead me upstairs. I cannot tell, because there is no light. I am stumbling blindly in the dark. As I am exposed, I tremble.

"I'm cold," I whisper.

Instantly, he is over me, his hands in my hair. "I'll warm you," he says, and he is everywhere, above me, around me, inside me…

It is not quite as uncomfortable anymore, only rather boring. I thought it would be much more exciting. I thought it would be life-altering. That is what the girls at the Opera always said. The feelings they spoke of were pleasurable, and I have felt nothing with Raoul. I thought it would make me feel wonderful. But all I feel is guilt. This is naughty, naughty, naughty, and I should not be doing this with my good husband…

He kisses my eyelids so lovingly. I try to smile at him, but it feels so incredibly dramatic. I am no one. I feel like no one, and I do not know why. I do not feel special or loved, or like I am the only woman in the world. There are millions of women in the world, and are they all doing this with their husbands? How do they look at them the same in the morning? How do they meet the eyes of other people? How does this love work?

Prying his sticky skin away from me, I turn and wonder if I am perhaps just too young and immature to appreciate it. Maybe I was not ready for marriage if the mere thought of marital relations makes me blush and gag.

He softly brushes my hair back. "You are so quiet," he says. "I try…"

I do not want to talk about such things with Raoul."No, no," I say, with absolutely no idea what I am denying. "I am just trying to relax."

"I don't want to relax," he says, and he presses his wet lips to my ear. It makes a funny sucking sound. I do not understand how this is supposed to be romantic. It only feels awkward, and I feel embarrassed for him.

"But I understand," he continues. "You are young, and a new bride. I love you so much. And we can learn together."

I feel that maybe I should put my arms around him, but I don't know where to touch. Where do you touch a naked man?

In the back of my mind, I am thinking that not all love is like this. There is love like the love woven into the chords of the opera I know so well. There are those feelings that the girls at the Opera always whispered about. And it feels too good… it must be too bad.

But he has never been deterred by doing anything that is considered wrong. He would gladly partake in anything I asked of him.

In the back of my mind, I know I cannot—should not—compare.

But... Erik's lips were thinner than Raoul's, and even though Raoul's are very gentle until the end, Erik's were feather light and travelled, skimming my skin and making me tingle. Raoul only made my skin damp, almost uncomfortable when it was exposed to fresh air, but Erik touched parts on my arm and I felt it travel into my stomach, like I had missed a step going downstairs. Raoul was thicker in the shoulders and in the waist, but it is soft and almost heavy; Erik is so thin and so hard, so tense against every inch of my body surface.

And with Erik, his hands had coaxed me to a sensation that was terrifying and exciting—he had done things that would make me blush in the light. But we didn't need the light. And where Raoul is perfectly content to be patient through the years and learn together, Erik was desperate—driven to the point of physical starvation and need from years of no human contact, and months and months of desiring me like no other—the frenzy had been exhilarating. What I thought I would fear, I enjoyed- was that what all the girls at the Opera spoke about?

There must be some sort of block in my mind, that allows me to think about these things so rationally and calmly. I am committing the most vile of sins, but as long as I do not take a second to consider it, I can continue brushing it aside whenever it makes its appearance in the contours of my hidden thoughts.

But I chose Raoul because of the lack of response I felt with him. Is that not what love it? Tolerance of another? Whenever Erik interacted with me, I felt a thrill of fear, a jolt of panic, an inability to breathe properly; when Raoul speaks to me, I feel nothing at all. When he puts his hands on me, I do not jump, I do not feel heat rise into my face when he enters a room. Erik caused all those confusing feelings deep inside of me. Raoul is simple and gentle and very very safe.

It is silly, for I have never questioned whether or not I made the right decision. But I cannot stop thinking about the way Erik's fingers felt on my skin.

Raoul is massaging my back, and it feels nice, but I am still cold. He makes no comment as I rise and put on my nightclothes. "Are you still feeling ill?" I ask kindly.

"No," he says, looking down at his pillows.

I do not like looking at Raoul when he is naked; it feels wrong, like I am intruding on something private. But when he averts his eyes from me, I feel a sting of inferiority. Why should he not want to look at me? Erik had stared at me as though he might never see me again.

"I am going to go get some water," I say quietly, pulling on my dressing gown.

"Christine?" Raoul says as I turn towards the door. I look back at him, expectantly:

"Yes, Raoul?"

He tilts his head to the side, his handsome eyes unreadable. "You look so very pretty."

"Thank you," I say automatically, turning away from him.

The words so strange on his lips. Two nights ago, in Erik's arms, I felt tragically beautiful compared to who was holding me. Tonight I do not feel pretty. I feel as though I am dying.