Okay. All of your lovely reviews and this quarantine gave me such motivation and inspiration to keep writing this as a full story! Thank you for that. Please enjoy!

Christine

"I need to bail tonight," I say as we lock up the auditorium. "These kids kicked my ass this week."

James, my choreographer, slings his backpack over his shoulders. "Girl, you can say that again. The drama with this group was unreal!"

"I know! Is it bad to say I'm glad this week is finally over?"

James laughs. "Alright get some sleep this weekend, and let's meet up on Tuesday to nail down the high school choreo. Tacos and margs after their performance?"

"Definitely!"

I manage and direct the music theatre summer camps every other week. Usually James and I go out for drinks to celebrate after the culmination of each camp, performance night. But I am exhausted this week. I teach the students the music on Monday and Tuesday, James teaches choreography on Wednesday and Thursday, then we stage block and run rehearsal on Friday and perform for parents and friends in the evening.

The level of difficulty and expectation depends on the age group, ranging from late elementary to college-age. We host the different age groups every other week in the summer, taking a week off between for holidays and to give us both a break.

I met James a couple years ago at the local university where I'm getting my Masters. I do most of my classes online, but there were a couple I had to take in-person in the evenings. James was in one of those in-person classes with me. We worked on assignments and studied together, and eventually he became a close friend. I remember going to one of his dance recitals and being in awe at his talent and artistic range.

So now I contract James out for choreography during summer camps and for our quarterly performances during the school year. Of course our middle school doesn't have the budget for a full-time professional choreographer for show choir, so I scrounge together what I can to pay his fees during the school year. James discounts his rate for me; he's an angel. Luckily the students' registration fees help pay us for summer camp.

But let's be honest, I didn't get into teaching music to pre-teens for the money.

James and I head out to the parking lot. The sun has long since set; these camp weeks are long and demanding. This week's camp was for middle schoolers, so many of my own students attend plus a fair number of students from other districts come. There is plenty of drama during the school year, but bringing in new kids with their own talents and egos just intensifies the hormones. To say this week was exhausting is an understatement.

"The usual spot downtown on Tuesday?" I ask before we head to our own cars.

"Yep. 7pm?"

I grab my phone and look at my calendar. "Does 8 work?"

"It's a date," James winks and gets into his car.

I climb into my vehicle and close the door. I let James go ahead so I can sit in the parking lot alone. My ears ring in the silence. I lean my head back against the headrest and sigh, relishing that beautiful silence. Until my stomach growls furiously.

I swing by my favorite Thai place on my way home; luckily they aren't slammed this late on a Friday night. Pad thai is the perfect comfort food to end this week.

I quickly check my mail in the front lobby before heading up seven flights of stairs. No elevators in this old building. I can hear the swell of a piano as I near the sixth floor, and I smile distantly to myself. I'm glad I didn't miss Keith's nightly concert.

Luckily my apartment isn't sweltering when I get inside—I left the windows open for the day and the evening air has already circulated through. I eat my pad thai, enjoying Keith's concerto as my soundtrack. It's nice to be able to turn my brain off at the end of a long week, not rehashing the day or planning for what's ahead. I just sit and eat and listen.

Tonight, Keith plays simple melodies that repeat, extend, and compound. With each song, the complexities grow and his talent is more and more apparent. I crunch on a spring roll and vaguely remember my dad practicing a Schubert piece like that—it started simple and morphed into a beast. It was one of the few pieces he had struggled to play, he practiced it for weeks and could never master it. What was it called? I wonder if Keith could play it.

I put my leftovers in the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. Dad had said something about it being impossible to play, but how did he word it? A pipe dream? A fairytale? A fantasy? A fantasy! That's it.

I pour myself a glass of wine and find a piece of paper. I write: "A humble request to the pianist: Wanderer Fantasy in C Major IV by Schubert." I take a drink of wine and head downstairs to deliver my request. It's been a couple days since I last made a request—I don't like to write Keith notes every time he plays. I don't want to be too rabid of a fan. But he always indulges me, which feels like permission to continue. I've decided that when he stops humoring me, I'll leave him alone.

I return to my apartment and take my glass of wine out onto the fire escape. It's my favorite place to listen to Keith play. His music isn't muffled by layers of floor and ceiling, thin as they may be. There is a pause as Keith reads my request and likely searches for sheet music. I wonder what his library is like—is it organized? Which composers does it consist of?

Keith begins the Schubert piece. Like his earlier songs this evening, it begins simply and develops into something staggering, impressive. And Keith plays it flawlessly. I am in awe. Who is this virtuoso who lives below me? I'm so dumbfounded that when he finishes, I almost forget to applaud him. Keith, you never cease to astound me.

Erik

My current gig for the month is in a recording studio. I have recorded in a studio a handful of times for soundtracks and albums. I have not, however, been paid to record in the middle of the night before. The producer's rationale has something to do with cheaper studio reservations and the client is very likely using cocaine, so the time of day is of little concern to these two.

I don't know where my manager Nadir finds these characters. Although, the same sentiment could be said about me—the pianist who wears a mask.

I am a night owl by habit, so staying awake through the night hasn't been a problem. I usually warm up in the evenings after I wake up, spend time composing with a keyboard and headphones (as to not disturb my neighbors further), then grab a ride to the recording studio and work the rest of the night.

Even though I am exhausted by 7 am, my circadian rhythm fights this change each morning. The sunshine, summer heat, and general noise of an awake world all keep me up. I should have had Nadir try to get a stipend for an extended stay hotel. If only.

Another part of this new routine is the semi-regular requests I receive when I practice in the evenings. It's almost a ritual. 7A slips a humble request under my door while I play. Not every time, but every other day or so. I don't know who 7A is, but they have classic tastes: Liszt, Debussy, Chopin, Tiersen… They keep me on my toes and throw in musical theater requests every once and awhile. I'm starting to wonder if they are testing my repertoire.

I'm fairly certain that's a compliment.

I find myself in a better mood for the entire evening whenever 7A leaves a request. I am more productive and inspired when I compose. I snap at Nadir less. I coast through the studio recordings with ease.

I play for an hour or so before I receive tonight's request: Schubert. A notorious piece, this Fantasy. I don't mind this kind of challenge from my neighbor, but it does take a little gumption once I find the sheet music. I make a few errors here and there, even with my adequately warmed up fingers. Overall, though, I am pleased with my execution. The applause above seems to agree.

I let 7A's request be my finale for the evening. Next, I move to composition, which is all digital at this point—so I can play on the keyboard with headphones. I have the ease of saving and organizing my drafts, and the program I use is much easier to read than my handwritten chords. Schubert is still on my mind as I compose, so I try my hand at a few quick variations of dances and waltzes.

I hear a piano and a violin. Then harpsichord. No, that's too 1700s. How about piano with a string quartet instead? My brain edits for that combination. Better. I play a few variations of introductory measures before I begin to hear the melody reveal itself. That's how composing works for me. Sometimes I have an idea or inspiration source and essentially chisel away the extraneous thoughts to discover the melody for my conscious mind. Other times, a cadenza will wake me in the middle of the night. Or, I hear a word that fascinates me and I immediately form a melisma to surround it in an aria. Sometimes I see notes on a staff that are simply visually appealing in my mind and incorporate them into a piece.

This is what I mean by a wellspring of music. It reveals itself to me or I must discover it. I create, experience, and consume music in various ways; it has always fascinated me.

I have a series of three dances composed when Nadir texts me. Tonight, he's my ride to the studio. I replace my mask and grab my messenger bag before heading downstairs. The streets are fairly busy—then I remember that it's a Friday night. Most people go out on the weekend. It's hard to keep track of the day of the week on this current schedule.

"Hey," Nadir says as I climb in the passenger seat of his SUV. He looks exhausted. He isn't as used to this night schedule as I am.

"Hello," I reply.

"I tried to sleep a little before picking you up. I don't know how you're doing this."

"I only sleep during the day." I pull out a sketchbook and continue writing a few chord ideas waltzing around in my head from the dances.

"Right. Well, based on Zander's feedback so far, this schedule should only continue for another two weeks. He's been impressed with you."

I hear a violin solo and that down.

"Zander wanted me to come along tonight to discuss future projects with you."

Figures. Not only does Zander, the client, lack basic musical comprehension, he also lacks tact. Always talking about money, always asking about contract extensions. At least he's easy once we record. He has a direction but allows the producer and me to make most of the creative decisions.

"As long as it's during normal waking hours."

Nadir laughs. "Right!"

We spend the next few hours at the recording studio. Zander gives us the vision for this session—I still don't fully understand what the end result is going to be. A short film? A mixed media project? It seems to change slightly each time we meet. But the producer and I create something unique and ethereal while Nadir and Zander converse in the corner. Zander is animated and excited, waving his arms with dilated pupils.

As much shit as I give him, Nadir is the perfect manager. He knows how to weed out the fickle clients, the too-opinionated creatives (that's my job), and the erratics—although Zander toes that line. Nadir can schmooze like I never could. He's a good negotiator. And he takes a fair percentage. We make a good team, although I would never tell him that to his face. He knows it too, though. I know I'm his favorite talent. He has a few others, but we spend the most time working together. He's been my manager for nearly five years.

Zander glances at me and seems to arrive at a stunning new idea. Nadir listens politely before giving a stern shake of his head. I can only imagine what this request was, but I have a guess.

Something else I appreciate about Nadir: he doesn't let my mask interfere with my work—whether it's a potential client or my own self sabotaging. He knows about my facial deformity and my firm boundaries that come with it. I won't remove the mask for anyone's selfish curiosity, I won't allow the mask to become my "schtick," and I don't do photos. Of course there are many other nuanced requests and suggestions I've received related to the mask, but those are the main three.

We wrap up at the studio around 6 am. Nadir and I grab some food on the way home; for once I feel ravenous. On the drive, he explains the next contract that's up for discussion with Zander. It sounds like another fantastical idea, but Nadir seems optimistic. If I'm comfortable with the client and my workload, I usually defer to Nadir's recommendations. He knows the business and draws up good contracts. I try to pay attention to his story, but the long night is finally catching up with me—perhaps today I will sleep better.

By the time I return home, the apartment is already warm. Now begins my daily dilemma of opening the windows for air flow or keeping them closed due to street noise. My air conditioner unit can only do so much. The city is awake and bustling with weekend excitement. I take off my clothes and mask and change into only boxers. It seems no matter how many layers I remove, the oppressive humidity remains. Open windows, it is.

The ambient noise can be its own lullaby, I try to convince myself. The stray horn honking or engine revving are just part of the symphony. I grab the sleeping eye mask I ordered online a week ago—to block out the sunlight. I don't care how ridiculous or pretentious it looks, it is perfect for day sleeping. I fumble around for my ear plugs in the bedside table as well.

But before I can put the ear plugs in, a sound makes me stop in my tracks. A lovely song filters down from up above. She starts softly at first, her voice muffled slightly through the thin ceiling. Then her voice grows in strength and resolve, committing to the song. It carries through the open windows, a clear, beautiful tone. She climbs and descends effortlessly. She captures the character's plight in subtle ways. I feel her vibrato in my chest. I am positively breathless.

At first, I wonder if I've already drifted off to sleep—this voice has to be a dream. This angelic soprano can't be real. I feel frozen, like I'm experiencing some kind of heavenly sleep paralysis.

Never in my life has a voice struck me so. I feel a pull deep within my gut as she soars over another cadenza. My throat goes dry. She sings of love and I wonder if it is possible to fall in love with a voice.

And suddenly—she changes songs and I am released from the spell.

I sit up and try to catch my breath. What on earth is happening? It takes several measures for my exhausted brain to comprehend. The sublime soprano voice is coming from the apartment directly above mine—7A. My singular captive audience member and regular request maker. My heart palpitates for a moment. No wonder she always has such classic requests, her vocal repertoire is just as impressive as her tastes in piano.

7A flits between musical theater ballads and operatic arias. I smile distantly when I follow her train of thought between songs—certain words or phrases or even a particular key change lead her along. She clearly understands music theory or at least has an innate ear for it. Something about her technique and breath control tells me it's the former.

She changes to an intricate aria, so I stop analyzing and just listen for a while.

I'm not sure how much time has passed. I feel like I've fallen into another dimension. How has a prima donna lived above me for so long without my noticing? I think she moved in a few months back; I specifically remember the previous tenant having much heavier footsteps.

Hearing 7A's renditions inspires me, so I move to the piano. I hover my fingers over the keys, ghosting the chords to accompany her. I don't want to drown her voice out or startle her. I follow her lead in tempo and key. The rest of the orchestration plays on in my head. My eyes drift across the piano and pause at a piece of paper—one of 7A's old requests.

A combination of notes and a certain word trigger a new song suggestion in my mind.

It seems I have a humble request of my own.

Christine

I've never been good at sleeping in. Even with Saturday morning and afternoon off, my body won't let me fully indulge in the weekend relaxation. So I decide to take the morning to deep clean my apartment. It's been a while and I never feel like I have the time or energy during the school year.

Tonight—and the next few Saturday nights—I have a gig singing at a little wine bar, the Rosé Lounge. They have live music every weekend, ranging from singer-songwriters, string quartets, pianists, jazz musicians, a little bit of everything. James knows the guy who schedules the talent and he highly recommended me. It's been a while since I've sung in front of an intimate crowd.

As I clean the apartment—sweeping, mopping, tidying, dusting, washing the dishes—I sing. I've been practicing my set with the lounge's regular pianist since James got me booked a month ago. So I'm ready. I just have a few first-night jitters fluttering around that I need to let out. I sing through my set list easily. Then a certain word reminds me of one of the songs the middle schoolers performed this week at camp, so I sing that for a while. Then a key change reminds me of my music theatre dream role I've had since high school. I belt the chorus and key change with heart. An Italian reference reminds me of an aria I sang in college, so I switch to my operatic soprano and flourish the grace notes here and there.

By the time I go through every role I've ever dreamed of performing, I'm done cleaning the kitchen. I lean against the windowsill and sing one last song gently, not wanting to wear out my voice before I perform tonight. But a shuffling sound startles me back into the apartment. Something slides under my door. I stare at it for a moment, wondering. It's a piece of paper. I rush to pick it up, it couldn't be…

A humble request to the vocalist: "Think of Me" from Hannibal.

Signed 6A

I'm bewildered. Baffled. Starstruck. 6A, the virtuoso pianist Keith, has a request for me? I stand there staring at the note, feeling like I'm having a weird out-of-body experience. I flip the piece of paper over and see one of my requests on the other side. My heart leaps in delight—he keeps my requests? I have something different fluttering in my veins now. I keep staring at the note, smiling like a giddy preteen.

Get it together, Christine! I need to sing his request! He must have liked the aria I sang earlier. Luckily I do know his suggestion, I performed in Hannibal in college a few years ago. I scramble to find a video of the accompaniment on my phone and plug in one of my earbuds. I take a drink of tepid water and clear my throat. I move to stand at the open window. And I sing for Keith.

It's like putting on a well-loved pair of shoes. I slip into the song and remember how it feels to perform it. The music wraps around me and I lose myself in the character. The range feels perfectly suited for my voice. Comfortable, powerful. I surprise even myself with the intricate cadenza at the end.

And Keith's applause from below assures me of my accomplishment. I curtsey like a prima donna toward the window and smile to myself.

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