Nothing could have adequately prepared me for the sight of him- once more his presence filled me with shock and excitement, and a desire which I had long suppressed. His form seemed to appear gradually before me, as if he had been made of some dark, alluring mist. And, as I had so many months earlier, I moved towards him with eager curiosity, my hands outstretched in expectation.
As my voice began to follow the seductive song of the violin, Erik's playing became increasingly louder and more passionate. Words were not needed between us, when there was music by which to communicate.
At that tremulous moment when we again stood face to face, there was the sudden appearance of silence. What should one say to the lover she has spurned? Would a simple apology overcome years of pain and heartache- it seemed an awfully inadequate repentance- or would he throw my humility at my face, scoffing at my belief that I could still make him love me? The reality of the matter was that no one person, despite enjoying Erik's affection, could make him do anything. He was the most singularly-minded and self-reliant man I had ever known, and also the most intriguing.
As my fingers reached out to make contact with his flesh, to caress the soft skin of his unmasked cheek, he quickly pivoted on his heel and offered me his back. It took only a moment for me to realize that, although he had come to me, he would communicate on his own terms. The tables had turned, and I had given myself up to the mercy of desire. "Erik," I asked, but with a firmness that caused him to face me once again. Yet, he did not meet my gaze, merely stared through me with numb indifference. The emotion in his eyes was more terrifying than if he had been afire with rage. I would rather endure his anger than fail to arouse any emotion in his spirit.
"Comtesse de Changy," he bit at the syllables of my married name, as if it were a foul taste in his mouth.
I would not be cruel, I had decided before arriving at the Opera, I would only offer my that which was true within me, and callousness would serve as tangible a mask as that which graced Erik's features. "Christine, please. . ." I stammered, and once again reached out to touch him.
He did not dodge my fingers, but gazed quizzically at my hand as it came to rest upon his firm shoulder. I relished the feel of him, the soft lining of his evening cloak seemed the sensation of being reunited with a lost loved one. "Erik, you and I have no need for such formalities. I thought we were beyond that. If nothing else, were we not always friends?"
"Does one normally betray a friend, and plot his death?" It seemed he was finished with our conversation, and began to walk away.
"Erik, you don't understand. I had no choice!"
But, he continued to move further and further away from me, until his feet crossed the threshold of the dressing room. He was leaving me as I had left him. "My dear, we all have choices. There is always a choice."
"Yes," I called back with an agonizing urgence, "and now, I have made mine!"