Apologies for the hiatus, work, the pandemic, and life in general just became a lot and I needed a break for my mental health. But now I'm back working away on this story with new ideas and inspiration! So please enjoy!

Erik

I'm up before the sun, but it doesn't seem to matter. These days of deep summer are relentless; it's going to be another blistering day. I take a cold shower to try to cool off. It only helps for a little while. I'm already starting to sweat as I brush my teeth.

The sound of a creaking floor above me interrupts my grousing thoughts. Christine is up. I wonder what else she does in the summer; she seems awfully busy and keeps inconsistent hours. I'll have to ask her next time I see her.

At that thought, I pause brushing my teeth to stare at my bare face in the mirror. I remember what I said to her the other night, "Next time, you can sing my request." My thoughts war against each other. How presumptuous of me to expect another meeting. But she was intrigued, even interested, was she not? The conversation flowed.

I stare at the skin on my cheek: mottled and pockmarked; my temple: pulled and rippled; my forehead: unnaturally shiny and smooth. Why would she want to see me again?

I spit into the sink, replace my mask, and leave the bathroom.

I have composing I need to work on, but the oppressive heat and my resurfaced self loathing are making me claustrophobic. I look around the apartment for a second and make the decision to find some air conditioning and work there. At least I can manage that issue easily. The self loathing is a different story. It will pass.

I pack my gear in a backpack and head downstairs. I already heard Christine leave, so there's no chance of running into her. There's a Middle Eastern café with air conditioning around the block. I'm not usually one for working publicly—or doing much else publicly for that matter—but when I do, I go to this café. I put on my noise cancelling headphones for the quick walk. I'm not in the mood to hear any comments from strangers today.

There isn't even music playing in the headphones; I only hear my footsteps and my heartbeat. I focus on my breathing. These rhythms alone are enough to put me in a better headspace. Maybe I should go for walks more often. If heat wasn't blooming on my back from the bag, I would be almost… comfortable.

When I open the door to the cafe, I'm hit with a wall of cool air. I breathe a sigh of relief and move my headphones to sit around my neck. The tables are all empty—it's more popular for dinner. Another reason why it's perfect for me. I step toward the pastry case and eye the sweets inside when the elderly owner, Lena, comes round from the back. A smile breaks across her weathered face when she sees me.

"Ah, Erik!" she says in her thick accent. "Tea and manakish?"

Of course she has memorized my usual. "You know me too well," I offer a small smile before paying. Cash only, of course.

"Go, sit, I bring you." Lena waves me away.

I take a seat in the corner and set up my laptop, miniature keyboard, and notebook. Lena was wary of me the first time I came in, but luckily I was with Nadir and a client, so I was a little less threatening. Eventually I came on my own for the breakfast specials and privacy.

I jot down a few syncopations on my notepad, combining the memory of Christine's steps on the creaky floor this morning with the sound of Lena currently clinking plates. I can already hear the melody forming when Lena comes to my table. She sets down a cup of tea and multiple plates of sweet and savory breakfast dishes—far more than what I paid for. I give her a look, but I know better than to protest now. She always gives me more food, saying I'm too thin. I try to explain that it's not because I don't eat enough, but it gets lost in translation and I lose the battle of wills. Besides, her cooking and baking are delicious. I'll sneak a generous tip before I leave.

"Thank you, Lena."

Christine

This is the biggest week of the summer. The pièce de résistance: the college-age music theater camp. It's our most intensive week with highlights and scenes from musicals. Plus James and I managed to form a partnership with the local university's theater department so their faculty hosts workshops on acting, dance, voice, costume and set design. The last two are just so we don't have to contract even more work out. All the students get to set and strike the stage.

I'm painting a sky scene with the students after lunch and it's one of the most peaceful moments of the day. There are a few quiet conversations scattered around the room, so I casually tell James, "I met 'Keith' last weekend." I had mentioned my neighbor a few times in passing to him the last couple weeks.

He glances up at me from the fake brick wall he's painting. "And? Was he some old retired pianist like you thought?"

I continue painting. "His name is Erik and he's a professional pianist in his thirties."

James sets his brush down. "Excuse me?!" he exclaims.

"Is he hot?" One of the college students nearby asks, and a few other girls look up from their work.

"Um—"

"How did you meet him?" asks someone else.

"Well—"

"How old are you?"

"Girls!" James interrupts. "Don't be nosy. Ms. Daae doesn't have to tell you about her private life… But I do think you have to answer MaKenna's question: is he hot?"

I have a room full of young adults and James staring at me eagerly and I don't know how to answer the question. Erik is not "hot." I don't know if I would even call him handsome. But he looks interesting. All height and sharp angles. Dark hair and light eyes that both look so soft. Long, spidery fingers that might seem creepy to someone else, but look graceful to me. Tall, white teeth that shock you if you're lucky enough to get him to laugh.

And the mask. How would I even explain the mask to them? That it's terrifying to see in a dark hallway but just a curiosity in the blue light of comfortable conversation? That I want to touch it to see if it's hard and cold like porcelain or pliable and warm like a second skin? That it looks hand-crafted from a mold of the visible side of his face? That I have no idea what's under it and that's just as terrifying and curious as the mask itself? I'm definitely not telling them about the mask.

"Not exactly, but he is… fascinating." I lose most of their interest with that answer.

But James scoots closer. "Tell me everything."

We talk about Erik for the rest of the set design workshop. I omit the mask for the time being in case anyone else is still listening in. Whatever James' reaction is, I want to keep it contained. Because I have an idea he would have some loud, choice words.

Then it's time to part ways to finish our own workshops and rehearsals. For the rest of the day, I teach small group vocal lessons by voice type. It's the perfect way to get the most out of these students in such a short period of time. There's no way I could fit in everyone for individual lessons, but I can give more specific guidance and pointers.

It's exciting to work with older students; it reminds me that I want to teach more advanced voice lessons. When they know more, it pushes me too. I can use more complicated language and concepts, I can draw more out of them. They have a deeper pool of emotion and experience to pull from. Sometimes we're both surprised by what they can accomplish.

We wrap up for the day and send the students home, but James and I stay late to finalize our stage blocking. Then James leaves, and I work on a paper for school. I'm on such a productive high, I don't want to stop. It's nine o'clock by the time I finally leave. I take a physical inventory as I walk through the parking lot: I'm as tired as I expected to be, only now my arms and shoulders are sore from hunching over for set design. I roll my shoulders and my spine releases a satisfying pop.

My head gets light as I climb into my car. I want to go straight home to bed, but I haven't eaten anything since lunch. And it's hard to forget the times I've neglected meals during busy days and have fainted. Not ideal when you live alone. So I swing by a fast casual Italian chain on my way home and pick up an unbelievably large pan of lasagna that's supposedly a single serving. Perfect, leftovers for days. I'll eat as much as I can manage, do a little of the assigned reading, and go to bed.

I check my mail with my free hand. Someone walks down the hallway and I linger for a moment, wondering if it's my masked neighbor. But it's just an older woman. I ignore the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, it's just hunger pangs.

As I ascend the stairwell, I hear the piano. My heart leaps for a second and I suddenly don't feel so tired anymore. His music beckons me, there's no other way to describe it. I don't even bother going up to my floor to drop off my stuff; instead, I head straight for his door. I knock, interrupting his Beethoven concerto. He answers swiftly.

"Christine," Erik says. He seems pleasantly surprised, that's a good sign.

"Hi," I smile up at him.

He runs his fingers through his black hair, pushing stray pieces away from the forehead of his mask.

"Have you had dinner yet?" I hold up the huge to-go container.

Erik's mouth opens and then he pauses for a moment. "Uh, no—I haven't, please come in." He steps aside and gestures for me to cross the threshold. His apartment is just as immaculate as last time, no new clues sitting out for me to learn more about him yet. "You didn't have to bring—"

"Oh, don't worry about it! They gave me enough food to feed a family of four. Besides, I heard you playing and...I had to stop by." What does that even mean? I can't stop talking. "That sounds weird, but something tells me you get it." I set the lasagna down on the table and glance up at him. "Right?"

Erik's eyes look bewildered, but then he smiles slightly, like he's thinking of an inside joke. "Yes, actually, you are correct. I do."

I pull out the plastic ware and gesture toward him, "I knew we understood each other."

We sit down at his table together and eat. Erik asks me about my summer jobs and I tell him all about the music theater camps and private lessons. I'm oddly invigorated by our conversation, I'm more animated than I thought I would be around him. I'm telling him detailed stories like we're old friends. And he actually seems interested, invested. He asks questions, he follows my rabbit trail side stories, and he laughs, flashing those teeth momentarily. I like the sound of his laugh. It builds from a deep chuckle within his chest and seems to overflow unexpectedly, like he can't contain himself. Erik is usually so reserved, it's exciting to see a different side of him.

Our laughter dissipates into an easy stillness for a moment. I look up at Erik and I can see him thinking furiously. I'm grateful his eyes are so expressive. "Would you—I know it's been a long day, but would you mind singing? Nothing arduous, I don't want you to damage—" His eyes flick to my throat.

I smile, appreciative of his concern. It is my turn in the request game, after all. "Of course. What is your request this time, Maestro?"

"Are you familiar with any of Beethoven's arias? I was playing through his concertos tonight and could imagine your voice fitting perfectly."

There's probably one I know, but not by heart. "Do you have any sheet music I could cheat with? I'm not so sure…" I bite my lip, trying to remember the title.

Erik smiles and moves eagerly toward his bookshelves. He pulls a couple of folders and brings them back to me at the table. "Here's what I have on Beethoven. I'll clean up while you peruse."

"Your organization is impressive," I say, opening the folders and skimming the sheet music.

"I have most of it memorized now, but it's nice to have on hand," Erik says casually as he picks up our plates.

I look up at him incredulously. "I'm sorry, you have all of that—" I gesture to his entire wall with shelves upon shelves of sheet music, "—memorized?"

He glances over at the wall and turns on the sink, shrugging. "Yes."

"Of course you do." I take a deep breath and look back down at the music. He is entirely too talented to be hanging out with me. "I need a drink," I mumble.

"Do you like cocktails?"

"Who doesn't?" I ask, smiling.

"I could mix an Old Fashioned for you, to thank you for dinner and the song." He looks over his shoulder at me, the unmasked side. Hair falling into his eyes.

Heat fills my stomach like I've already begun drinking. "I'd like that."

I find the one aria I'm familiar with and read through it a couple times to refresh my memory. When I'm ready, Erik goes to the piano to accompany me and I stand in the curve of the instrument. Watching him play is magical. He has the sheet music in front of him, but he doesn't use it. His eyes are either closed or staring at me. And I can't seem to look away, so I feign the need of looking at my own music when it gets to be too intense. It's not awkward, but it's like looking into the sun. When the song rises, I find myself drawn back to his eyes, senses be damned.

Yet again, Erik is right. This aria is perfectly suited for my vocal range. How does he already know my voice so intimately? I lean into a powerful phrase and back off when I reach the end, finishing the aria gently. I open my eyes and Erik looks...enraptured. His eyes are glistening and his lips are parted ever so slightly.

"Exquisite," he says airily, still locked into my eyes. Then he clears his throat and turns away, releasing me from some dreamlike state. "Now about that Old Fashioned."

It's been two weeks. And I've completely neglected my homework and discussions. It seems like I've been spending every spare hour I have with Erik. Rather than doing the assigned reading, I invite him up to my apartment to discuss music theory. And instead of participating in the group discussions online, I'll spend the evening at his apartment for cocktails and music. It's easy when we're just a floor apart.

And it's only becoming easier. We play and sing what we're working on. Erik tells me about his upcoming projects and recording deals. I recount the hilarious things my students say. He even played some of his original pieces for me and he continues to surprise me with how talented and smart he is.

And now finals are imminent and I'm uncharacteristically nervous about my grades. So I've holed up at the university library all day to try to catch up. Otherwise, I know I will be distracted. I even organized a group to brainstorm and critique our final projects.

In the afternoon, I take a quick break between assignments to stretch my legs and get a drink from the student center's café. The second I step outside, I'm drenched in heat and sunlight. It's glorious. The library is so heavily air conditioned I need to wear layers for warmth. And the fluorescent lighting was starting to give me a headache. I take my time walking to the building next door, relishing the vitamin D.

The student center isn't nearly as packed as it would be during the school year, but it isn't empty either. There must be plenty of in-person summer courses and activities for the undergrads. I find the café, order an iced coffee, and sit at one of the tiny tables to wait. A young undergrad couple sits at the table next to mine making out. Hard. I try not to stare.

But my mind wanders, thinking about kissing. I haven't really dated anyone since college. It's been a while since I've kissed someone. I wonder if I'm any good at it. I roll my eyes; what a pathetic thought. I rest my chin in my palm and steal a glance at the couple again. I wonder what it would be like to kiss Erik. I think his lips would be stiff at first, but then with some coaxing he would be soft and ardent. And his tongue—

"Christine!"

The barista jolts me back to reality. Face burning, I quickly grab my iced coffee from the counter and head back toward the library.

It's been two weeks. I had myself convinced that we are just really good, really fast friends. Physically, Erik is not my type at all. He's so thin and tall and sharp. But there have been moments of intensity. Of heat. When our eyes meet or our fingers happen to touch. Just remembering those moments makes my cheeks flush again. So maybe I might like Erik.

But that realization leaves my stomach in knots. Not because I don't want to like him, but I still haven't told James or anyone else about Erik's mask. All of these conversations and time spent with him and I still have no idea why he wears it. We just never mention it.

It feels like a weird betrayal to James and to Erik to not talk about it. I feel like I'm hiding something from James, and I feel like Erik is hiding something important from me. I shake my head. But it's only been two weeks! Honestly, we barely know each other and this is probably something deeply personal. He doesn't owe me an explanation so soon.

I try to set my thoughts of Erik aside as I return to my spot in the library.

"Gin and tonic or martini?"

Erik texted me after I got home from the library and I couldn't resist. I caught up on my Master's program and he lured me with the promise of another delicious cocktail. I was out of excuses that I didn't really want to make anyway.

"Gin and tonic," I reply, pulling out a record sleeve from his shelf. "Not a fan of vermouth."

"I love a perfect olive," Erik says as he mixes our drinks.

I set up the vinyl and play a collection of Beethoven sonatas for strings and piano. I place the sleeve upright to display the cover art. Then I'm struck by how comfortable I am here. The first time I came to his apartment two short weeks ago, I played his piano. I'm not usually so brazen, but with Erik things are… different.

I decide to sit down in the middle of the couch and Erik hands me the gin and tonic with cucumber and lime. He sits next to me; so much closer than our usual opposite ends of the couch. But like me, he seems so much more comfortable and warm. Erik takes a drink of his martini and glances at my arm draped across the back of the couch. He slowly raises one of his long fingers, like he's going to graze my arm. "What are you doing tomorrow, say 8?"

This is the first time one of us has asked to actually schedule time together, possibly outside of the walls of this building. It has all been so spontaneous, mostly on my part. A thrill flickers in my stomach. Is he asking me out? Heat blooms across my chest and it's not the gin.

I grab my phone to check my calendar and that thrill sinks. Dinner with Raoul.

"I can't, I have a date." It slips out of my mouth before I fully realize what I've said. Shit.

"Oh." His hand retracts.

I completely forgot! I try to explain, "It's just with this guy Raoul I met at my show at the Rosé Lounge—well, actually I guess I already knew him, we went to the same high school." Erik's entire body seems to deflate. You're making it worse! Fix it!

Erik

She has a date. With that model of a man from her show. Of course. Even his name sounds like he should be on a soap opera. It's an unexpected punch to the gut. I try not to let it show, but I know the mask can only hide so much. The confidence I've slowly been stoking extinguishes in a mere moment. Attracted as I am to Christine and her voice, I did not realize that I had allowed her to infiltrate my feelings so quickly. I didn't anticipate being attracted to her wit, thoughtfulness, and heart as well. But we are not anything to each other. I do not possess her time or attention, nor does she owe me them. Still, I can't help the pang of jealousy that twists in my chest.

"I'm sorry—" she starts, interrupting my internal spiral.

I sit up straight and look her in the eye. "Christine, you have nothing to apologize for," I say a little too forcefully. I know my eyes can be intense at times, so I try to soften them. Her startled expression turns into something more… yearning? No, that can't be right.

"Well, what did you have in mind? What about next weekend?" She leans in closer. Her perfume makes me lose my train of thought. I swallow and her eyes dart to my mouth. My head swims. Jesus.

I stand up and pretend to refill the olives while regaining my composure. I don't like knowing that I won't be the only date she has, but I tell myself it's just a courtesy date with this Raoul. She's allowed to date around if she wants. I rack my brain for date ideas. I had something in mind for tomorrow, but now that I'm striving against Rosé Raoul, I need to be more creative… Then I recall an event Nadir had mentioned Leonard offered us tickets to in an effort to ingratiate himself to me. It just might work.

"The Kansas City Opera will be performing selections from the upcoming season at the art museum next Saturday. Limited seating, I don't particularly enjoy crowds." I glance over my shoulder to gauge Christine's reaction.

"You got tickets to that?!" she practically shouts, jumping off the couch.

I guess I'll have to ask Nadir to give up his ticket. He won't mind. But I will need to deal with the consequences of accepting Leonard's gift. No matter. It's worth it for Christine's reaction alone.

"Only if you can manage to pencil me in," I quip, nodding toward her phone.

Christine grabs the device and clutches it to her chest. "Erik, I will clear my schedule for you," she says, mock dramatically. Then she actually does check her calendar. "Honestly, we're lucky it's a pretty open weekend for me. All the summer activities are starting to wind down and my final project is due that Friday. Free as a bird." Christine hands me her glass for a refill. "How about cocktails after the museum?" she asks as I pour. "I know a good bartender at a place with no crowds."

I appreciate her understanding and feel myself smiling. "I'll be sure to stock my liquor cart."

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