…
January 201-
The Orpheus School of Music and Dance had been without a dedicated full-time accompaniment, vocal coach, and composer for their senior staff for too long. Initially dismissive of a highly educated applicant with no relevant work history, the director of the school, Dr. Allen, turned sheepish and awestruck when he saw Erik's sample work and heard him perform.
He'd stared at Erik's mask, too, and tripped over his tongue when discussing the students. The school was desperate to become a feeder for the extensive music and performing arts culture in the city. Dr.
Allen prattled on about the need to establish a reformed program before introducing such high level training, cultivating a new culture of performance, and other nonsense.
But he held back on a timeline. Erik knew what he was really saying. The school needed to adjust to having a mask-wearing freak as a senior staff member, but his real reply sounded a little better. "For now, perhaps, just the senior staff, arrangements for advanced students, and accompaniments when needed?"
Dr. Allen smiled in relief and shook his hand gratefully and delivered Erik to the administrative office for paperwork.
…
Nadir had a vice. He didn't have many, good doctors generally didn't, but this thick, sweet, black sludge was definitely one of them. Which was exactly why the Turkish coffee pot and grounds stayed at Erik's house, and not his own.
The first sip always made his eyes roll for a moment, and when he looked up from his cup, Erik was still intently scrolling and tapping through a myriad of tabs on his laptop.
"New project?" The warmth of the cup was as delicious as what was in it. Nadir wrapped his chilled hands around it
Erik's half smile peeped from the mask. "I got the job, so I've got homework to do."
The cup nearly sloshed with Nadir's rush to shake Erik's hand. "Congratulations! So, they've already given you work to do? Transcribing? Designing a program?"
Erik snorted. "Personnel directory. You know, in the last few years the internet has gone from news, porn, and pictures of people's lunches to roadmaps of people's lives. Public and private."
Nadir sipped and glanced over Erik's shoulder. "They still post their lunches, I see."
"This is the head of the six to eight year olds program. Her Instagram is a temple to green juice and sushi. Her Facebook suggests a more earthbound love of red meat."
"Closeted steak eater?" Nadir slurped foam from his moustache.
"Man eater."
"Next," Nadir said, averting his eyes.
"The two main instructors are also a couple. Recordings suggest that she's a passable soprano and he's a quite good mature tenor. They just sing the wrong music, but that's easy to fix. The head ballet instructor looks exactly as a fifty year old French ballet mistress should." Erik stood and started another pot of coffee.
"So, terrifying?"
Erik chuckled as he measured coffee. "There's a few other full time staff and a mountain of part time people who are probably graduate students and recent grads between staying fresh for auditions. Most have recordings posted and they're all respectable and might be very good with my help."
Nadir sat and tapped on a recording and a soft warble from a young baritone played. "Have you gone through them all?"
"Nearly. Twenty seven in all, and nearly a dozen I'm looking forward to meeting."
"That's quite a load for you."
Erik sighed as he swirled the pot. "It is."
It was going to be a long evening. He would have to pace himself. Too much of this coffee and he'd be as wired as Erik. "Any concerns?"
This distance across the kitchen, and having a task, was useful. It allowed Erik to remain at arm's length from both him and his own thoughts. Nadir waited while Erik sprinkled cardamom into the pot and continued his careful brew.
Another sigh. Softer. "Is this what I need, Nadir? Will this make me normal? An ordinary man? I mean, can I ever have that again?"
The baritone's voice rose, a sound both full of power yet mournful. Erik's unoccupied hand moved in the air, trembling every so slightly, as though catching and weaving the voice, directing the recording through the pain as the tune sweetened with warmth. Nadir emptied his cup to avoid speaking until the song ended and the air carried only the scent of a fresh brew.
"I think this is what you need, Erik," Nadir said, fiddling with the edge of his cup. "But I disagree on one point, my friend."
"Which is?" Erik asked as he carefully watched the pot.
Nadir joined Erik in the kitchen. "You may be many things, but ordinary will never be one of them." He leaned against the counter. "I prefer the term 'whole'."
Erik looked up from the pot, blinking. After a moment, his shoulders dropped minutely. "Another?"
Nadir set his cup by Erik's hand. "Of course."
…
March 201-
If Carlotta would simply sing for her voice, she would be magnificent. That the woman insisted on the repertoire and style of a school girl was hardly Erik's fault, but the tremor that lightly rattled his shoulders throughout the sessions was almost accusatory. Erik had been prepared to work with her, but the woman had insisted on singing like a Disney princess on a roller coaster. The range and precision was there, but the polish was too fine, bordering on machine-like. Erik lowered his expectations and set out to keep her from hurting herself.
And if Carlotta was flying too high, then her partner Ubaldo would stand en pointe to hold her up, despite the fact that he had achieved the heroic phase of his robust tenor and should be singing Ulysses.
But he would never turn down a chance to be Carlotta's Romeo and that was simply that.
The ballet instructor also taught introductory voice, and Madame Giry (Erik knew of no first name—she was simply Madame) had a respectable mezzo that neither thrilled nor irritated. The same could be said of much of the faculty and Erik found that the mediocrity was soothing, if unremarkable.
He avoided the word unfulfilling.
A handful of other faculty came through his studio throughout the week, and eventually his days organized themselves around his own morning vocals and practice, then with faculty, and ended his day with composition work. He stayed on the faculty and advanced side of the school, leaving the retina searing primary colors and candy-pinks to the children's side. There, college students and local theater performers taught everything from rhythm and harmony to six year olds to the fundamentals of musical theater to high school students.
A few were good. Most would wreck their voices, if not their bodies, by twenty-five. Despite his expertise, none of the teachers on this side of the school came to ask him for lessons.
Erik did not mind. He'd long since grown accustomed to his solitude. It left him more time to compose on his own. But there was just one problem.
Composing required coffee. Plain, drip coffee.
Quite a lot, in fact, and the good coffee pots were in the kitchens. The kitchens were on the children's side of the school. The faculty side had one pod brewer and, frankly, he'd rather lick a public theater seat.
He quickly learned the quickest routes to the kitchens and avoided the areas of the school sporting the most offensively bright bulletin boards.
…
Erik had not slept well in days and his tremors were worse than usual. Composing and actually producing something was a labor he'd forgotten once he'd graduated. Admittedly, the university had set the bar rather low in his opinion, and had fallen over themselves to list him as a working musician once he'd scored the intro music for an app. His eight inch-thick portfolio was of less interest, apparently.
Carlotta sighed loudly when she saw how the pages shook in his hands and Ubaldo gave a nervous smile.
She gave an overly large curtsey. "Maestro? Are you well?"
Erik settled the sheets, smudging a correction, and tugged at his cuffs. "Your concern is touching. The serenade, then the duet?"
"As my maestro commands."
Despite everything, this was one place Erik was always free of the quivering that rippled through his nerves. When he played, the snarling in him quieted and music washed over him, soothing the tremors, relieving him from the constant debridement that every sound and sensation evoked.
The introduction to this solo was nearly two minutes long. Carlotta did not like to wait, but it was soothing; a warmth in his veins he could not generate without music.
Sadly, Carlotta joined the song on cue but, like everything else, it added color to the tapestry of his new life.
…
Within moments of getting home that night, Erik collapsed into his bed, the down coverlet fluffing up around him like he'd disturbed the geese that made it. His shoes slapped sharply to the floor, sending sparks over him that coalesced under his mask.
He needed to take care of his skin. Nadir would check.
He hauled himself from bed and turned the dimmer switch to its lowest setting. Bright lights sent shockwaves through him and frankly he didn't need to face a spotlighted version of himself.
The mask came off and the cool air sent a shiver through him and set his hands quivering. Even in the low light, he was just… well, there he was. Burn scars layered over little more than bone, part of his nostril melted onto his cheek, and his lips…
In profile, not so bad. From one side. Mostly.
It was the hairpiece that was the real clincher. He set it aside and smoothed down what remained. Patchy.
Unmatched.
Repulsive, his mind whispered.
He turned the overhead light all the way off and showered in the diffuse glow from his bedroom. He washed gently, careful to follow his doctor's instructions and warnings. Nadir parroted them at him often enough.
Nadir was finally seeing someone. Erik couldn't bring himself to call too often, not when the man had a chance to settle again. Not when he'd waited for Erik to stop being such a basket case. No longer on the verge of regular self-destruction. Erik tried to imagine what it was like to have that kind of life.
He failed, and laid awake for half the night, lost in the too-cool expanse of his oversized bed.
…
April 201-
There was simply not enough coffee in the world for this. All the little darlings in their tutus and tights clamoring about the hallways made it impossible for Erik to steal an entire carafe (safely, at least), so he settled for standing in the kitchen to drink one cup and take one with him back to his piano.
He was no longer able to stay up all night composing and still function the following day—not when there was a diva, her buffa, a spring staff concert, children's recitals at every grade level, a one-act musical theater production, and the ballet all happening in the same two week period. Erik left Allen to deal with Carlotta after refusing to provide a second cadenza to her solo.
Children were rounded up in lines and shooed to a smaller recital room packed with folding chairs. Relieved, Erik sighed and took a sip of his freshly poured cup. It burned, heat ricocheting through his lips and pinging down his neck. He took the lid off to cool and leaned against the counter. If he sat now, he'd have a hell of a time getting back up. All the tables and chairs were covered in flowers and gift baskets for the teachers, anyway.
The best gift he'd ever gotten from a student was this coffee cup taped to a bottle of red wine. More useful than flowers and Erik appreciated the well-insulated cup and its spillproof lid. If anyone other than his student had given it to him he would have been furious, but he'd yet to spill despite his tremors. That it was sleek and looked like an understated art piece was a bonus.
The teachers on the children's side all played piano for their classes, so he'd had little to do for them besides arrange simple versions of great ballets for little Dulcineas and Odettes to bop about on their heels. The older students and the senior teachers decided, since they had such a great resource in him, to do a musical. Erik put his foot down and limited it to one new song.
It was a lot. A student would sing it for the musical, and Carlotta would sing it at the staff concert. That he'd written much of the serenade a few years ago no one needed to know.
Still, it was a lot. He needed more coffee.
He'd considered presenting the song he was working on, maybe try to finish it, but that was too personal. The repeated phrase was scattered across the pile of papers Nadir had stacked on his counter and it never left him alone. It was soft and sad with a sturdy backbone to build on. The piano in his workroom had obliged him, letting those notes grow into something fluid but it needed resolution.
And a voice. Madame Giry was reliable but unornamented. Carlotta was… Carlotta.
His coffee had cooled enough to drink and Erik swallowed half of it, refilled, and popped the lid back on. Before he could ease his weight off the counter, a half-sung, half hummed sound floated down the hall and into the kitchen. He caught pieces of sweet phrasing spun around an effortless melody. A trill here, a rolled r.
He recognized every voice in the school, down to the children in the third grade choir. He didn't know this voice.
He didn't know this voice.
Intrigued but in no mood to meet a stranger, Erik ducked into the supply closet and peeked through the angled slats.
The voice grew closer, and finally a woman with curling hair pinned atop her head walked into the kitchen and took an apple from a gift basket. She continued to sing and toyed absently with the tune as she washed her snack, first elaborating the motif, then abbreviating. Erik leaned his exhausted head against the door and listened, fingertips dancing through the air smoothly in time with her playful variations. With his gaze fixed on her through the slats, he watched as she rolled a slender shoulder and let her hips sway, then she added exquisite resonance to her sound. The tiniest scrape in her transition was… seductive. Erik closed his eyes and exhaled, letting her voice wash over and through him.
Perfectly imperfect.
And yes, there. He'd add the violin accompaniment just there. A counterpoint to caress and slide around the loneliness in her voice like a lover.
Then it stopped. Erik's eyes snapped open and he gripped the doorframe to avoid falling into the racks of plastic ware and paper towels behind him. He peered through the slats again.
She was looking at his coffee cup.
Shuffling in the hallway and a parade of cardboard went by. "Christine!" A voice called. "The kids have the scenery changed, you'd better get back here!" The woman shrugged and bit her apple as she hurried away.
Erik blinked. Christine.
He waited a minute more, then exited the closet cautiously and retrieved his coffee.
It wasn't until he was sitting at his piano again, mimicking her whimsical tune, that he froze. Realization struck him like a bolt and he gripped the bench as if he'd slide off otherwise.
While she sang, his hands had not trembled.
…
The spring recital season was over, and Erik took the chance to sleep for nearly an entire day solid. It threw off his schedule so badly that he stayed up all night composing. When he set his bag on his desk Tuesday morning, he was nearly as bleary as when he took his day off.
Which is to say, he needed coffee. At two that afternoon, after orders to the staff for nothing more than warm ups after the weeks of rehearsals and concerts, Erik took his sleek coffee cup and trudged to the kitchen. The teachers there were preparing for their after-school classes and the carafes were blessedly full. He filled his cup and leaned his aching head against the cabinets.
"I see you got your cup back!"
Erik turned quickly, startled. He angled his face to keep his left side toward… her. "Ah, yes. Yes, I did."
It was Christine. The voice. Erik glanced at the storage closet and recalled the breathless minutes he spent in there. He could barely breathe now.
She reached in front of him, nearly brushing his chest with her arm, and took the carafe. "It was a crazy week. We're still cleaning up the mess down here." She took a sip and sighed happily. "I'm Christine Daaé. I started a few weeks ago."
"Erik Brodeur." He kept his face awkwardly turned. If she thought it strange, she made no sign of it.
"I wondered when they'd let you up for air. Some of the other teachers thought you were living here during prep for concert week."
He felt his mouth twitch. "Almost. I made a few brave escapes, but had to be back to do vocal lessons in the mornings."
She perked up. "You give lessons? To staff?"
"Senior staff," he said automatically, and instantly regretted it as her face fell a bit. In a near panic, he continued quickly. "But things are slower now. I've already told Allen that I'm not doing arrangements for the school until the end of the summer, so if you're interested, I'm sure I can accommodate it."
"Really?" She sparkled and the sound of her delight tickled his neck. "I mean, I won't take someone else's time."
The possibility of having her, her, sing alongside him was dizzying. Erik thought quickly. "Staff sessions are early, and I sometimes stay late to compose. What time are you done with… this?" He had no idea what she did. Admittedly, he planned his day to avoid the crowds of children and their parents and left
the teachers to their own devices.
"Six. I do the prep, so the other teachers handle tear down."
"Will six-thirty work? My recital room?"
"Sure! When can we start?" Christine was beaming. At him. Warmth rippled through him.
"Tomorrow?"
"Really? Oh god, this is the best thing that's happened in months," she gushed and nearly sloshed her coffee. Her cheeks warmed with color and Erik had to glance away. It was not possible for a person to look like that. Not around him, anyway. As she rebalanced her cup, Christine glanced at her phone and smiled sheepishly. "I have to get back, but thank you so much. I'll see you at six-thirty tomorrow!"
Christine's smile was sweet and shining, and she gave a little wave as she went out into the hallway. Eric waved back, and decided to not feel like an idiot for it.
"Tomorrow," he repeated.
…
At a quarter after six, Erik had run out of things to prepare and sat at his piano, playing to ease his nerves. He played nothing in particular, just airs and bits he liked, and let his little phrases wind around each other in an impromptu ode to the art of chasing silence back into its corner.
"That's beautiful," said a voice from the doorway.
Erik glanced at the clock as he transitioned from one song to the next. Six twenty-two. "You're a little early."
Christine set down her bag and stood by the piano. "I waited as long as I could. I was ready half an hour ago." She wrinkled her nose. "I even did tongue twisters."
His hands continued to play, heedless of their owner's distraction. His students at the university would wait in the hall outside until exactly one minute past the hour. Carlotta was perpetually late and rarely prepared and Giry was punctual to the point of cliché. Ubaldo had no sense of time outside of song and
Erik thought him a rather musically gifted cryptid. No one was early on purpose.
"Well aren't you the model student," he joked. It came out more with bite than he intended, so he added a silly flourish on the piano.
Christine laughed. "Most teachers just called me adequate."
Erik looked up, his hands stilling for a moment. "Most teachers are incompetent." The silence stretched a beat too long, and when he resumed, he found the song had changed from something pleasantly inviting into something… else. Soft and sad. More yearning than perhaps appropriate to the setting.
Six twenty-nine. His eyes fell back to Christine, her head tilted to one side as if to catch the music more completely. Eyes half closed.
Oh.
Erik cleared his throat and pulled his hands from the keys. "Scales then? Let's start with middle C and see where that takes us."
She opened her eyes and straightened with a deep breath and an excited curve to her lips.
Oh, he was in trouble.
…
They agreed to meet twice a week. On their second session, a piece of music clicked and they transitioned from one piece to the next with little thought or effort. Somehow the room melted away and they could have been anywhere, anywhen.
When Christine's voice began to fray, Erik reluctantly waved his hand with a flourish, signaling the end of their lesson. She was bright with effort, a blush that lent a sparkle to her eyes and painted itself across her cheeks.
A glance at her smile was enough to make his voice catch, and Erik had to clear his throat.
"I think that's enough for today," he managed, and slid from the bench. "You know the drill, plenty of water, easy on the alcohol, and vocal rest for the evening."
While Christine caught her breath and reached for her bottle of water, Erik happened to look up at the clock. It was after eight. The walls were suddenly close.
"I hadn't meant to keep you so late."
She gave a little shrug. "It's no problem."
Erik smoothed the front of his jacket and adjusted his cuffs, then forced his hands to be still. "I don't want to keep you from any- plans." From anyone. That was a lie. He'd like to play for her until she had that dreamy smile again, but that smile might be for someone else.
Her curls rolled over her shoulders as she shook her head. "Nope no plans, just my roomate. I'm sort of new in town," she said, then examined her water bottle rather carefully. "I'm, uh, not keeping you, am I?"
If only life could have provided a rim shot. A bit of comedic trombone, perhaps.
"Me?" Erik laughed. It was not a nice laugh. It was an ugly sound, and Erik smothered it quickly. "No, I haven't had plans in a while."
"Oh," Christine said. "Well, I don't mind staying a bit late if you don't." She had the sweetest smile, and his hands had managed to stop picking at his cuffs.
Erik swallowed, and reminded himself to blink. "Sure. It's okay with me."
…
"Nadir, so help me god, if you don't answer your phone I will hunt you down and shout Stockhausen at you."
Erik ended the call and dropped his phone on the counter. His kitchen was spotless, his living room stylishly pristine, and the bathroom was sparkling. His papers were as organized as they were going to get and his favorite pens were actually on his desk for once, rather than jammed under his keyboard, shoved into notebooks, composition folders or scattered on the table by his piano which was polished free
of rings.
It was only nine at night.
He dialed again. "In the name of all that is holy, pick up your damned phone."
Erik needed to talk to his friend. His only friend. Ubaldo was nice enough but had no frame of reference.
It had been so long… he hadn't even entertained the notion. He probably shouldn't. She just wanted voice lessons. At the very least he could be charming.
Erik slapped his palm against the counter. There was nothing charming about him. Not anymore; acid never really mellowed. He needed Nadir.
"Nadir, I'm giving you one last chance. It's about a woman. Call me."
He ended the call and headed to the liquor cabinet.
He'd only just poured a glass of red when the phone rang. When he answered, Erik caught the end of a feminine giggle.
"Tell me of your woman, my friend. I am here to help."
Erik jammed the cork back into the bottle savagely. "She's not mine. It's just… she can sing, and I started giving her lessons after work. I see her and talk to her and play for her and I don't do that."
"You're rambling, Erik."
"I'm going to cancel. Or I'll say I'm really too busy. Or that-"
"You will do nothing of the sort. Are you meeting her at home or at work?"
"Work," Erik said flatly.
"Then why are you nervous? What is she like?"
Erik thought and could recall little more than a smile, a voice, the way deep breaths made her sway, and the way he aches to see it. He barely knew her at all. "She is kind, Nadir, and she looks at me like anyone else. I know she probably just wants free voice lessons but I don't think I care because she smiles at me," Erik gripped the counter as if he might float away. "Do you understand, Nadir? She smiles at me.
When she sings, my hands do not shake."
Nadir was quiet. "How long has it been, Erik," he asked softly.
"Pardon?" The phone's case creaked, Erik squeezed so hard.
"Don't play stupid, Erik."
Erik drained the wineglass in one long pull. "Four years." It was hardly romance. A grimy screw backstage with a near stranger. "She was a grad student in another department and thought I was in costume for a part."
Nadir sighed. "Oh, Erik."
"I'm not sure who was more traumatized afterwards, her or me." He poured a second glass, then put the bottle away.
"My friend, be careful. For your own sake and hers, go slow. Do I need to come over?"
Yes. "No, no. Get back to what you were doing, I'm fine."
"I will call you tomorrow, my friend. And be kind to yourself. I will not be pleased if you sabotage a chance at happiness."
"Thank you, Nadir. Good night."
Erik left his phone on the counter and wandered to the piano, sipping his wine as he walked. His body recalled the gentle sensuality of Christine's song, conducting her imagined refrains with his fingertips as if dancing.
A few sheets of staff paper later, he collapsed into bed and dreamed.
…
Christine was curious. "Wait, so you're an architect and you have a fine arts doctorate? Why?"
"No, I said I was an architect. Then I went back to school for music."
She nodded and slid some music into a folder. "Okay, but still, why?"
They weren't going there. Not yet. Maybe never. Erik made a vague gesture, his hand flitting like a bird.
"I got bored."
She stood, unsatisfied. Erik sighed, flitting a hand absently by the mask. "An accident. You might say it was life changing." For some, life ending.
Erik watched, looking for signs of… something. Her eyes widened and flitted from his left eye to the edges of his mask. It was subtle, but Erik was good at nothing if not knowing when he was being examined.
Christine blinked and shuffled the rest of her music into her binder quietly.
"I'm sorry." She finally replied.
"Don't be. It was a long time ago." Erik said as he turned back to the keys, then fussed over the sheet music that had migrated throughout the day. He had a filing system, it just needed practice to keep up. A bit like him he supposed. Out of practice.
"It took me a long time to finish school," Christine said abruptly. "Just one degree, though."
Erik stopped stacking papers and looked up. "Why?" he asked cautiously.
"It was just my dad and me. He played violin in the local symphony and gave lessons. I was surrounded by music and musicians as a kid and I loved it. I even went to college to study voice and dance." She paused and straightened a loose curl, tucking it into a pin like it was a nervous habit.
Christine unclipped a wild section of her hair and coiled it again, taming escaped strands. "I was a junior when I took some time away from school. Afterwards I got some help getting auditions in the local scene. Small stuff and understudying, but I loved it."
The sad, wistful look on her face said there was more, but she was smiling. Small stuff made her smile.
Erik liked that smile. Small stuff. He could handle that. Starting small. "What did you understudy?"
…
Erik had gotten the little copper pot out and had almost sunk the spoon into the powder-fine grounds when he remembered he was alone. Nadir only came once a week now, and time stretched in odd ways during days in between. Not as bad as it might have been, though. He saw Christine twice a week after work and that helped, but not when he got home. Even air moved differently when you were alone.
She said she'd started at the school a few weeks ago. She wouldn't have been on the faculty list when he first stalked it, but she was now. Erik opened an incognito tab and started digging. Her page on the school's site led him to the usual accounts. Her Facebook looked half abandoned, so he started scrolling.
Her school years were normal enough until about four years ago.
The posts started hopeful enough. A bright eyed Christine wished her father good luck, then pages of sympathy notes, well-wishes and thinking-of-yous. A visit home, then back to school, a few tests, a dance recital and a group picture with a chorus and then…
Oh no. An emptied apartment. Appointments. Medical escorting and home health training. Chemo and radiation, Christine learning to care for radiation burns. Feeding tubes and morphine.
The posts now were few and far between; he could just feel the isolation compressed between them.
Hospice. Erik closed the tab..
Her Instagram was newer. She finished college, and met up for drinks with an old friend. The friend was a ballerina who drove to see her walk the stage, and then they moved in together. Christine job hunting, getting hired. A few notes of congratulations.
A blank page with a little heart on the anniversary of her father's passing.
And her last post. She was taking actual voice lessons with a real coach. She was happy and excited, like her early college days. The thought made a tingle spread over Erik's arms. He'd made her happy.
He had made Christine happy. Erik put the idea in his pocket and closed his laptop.
...
"No," Erik corrected. "Keep everything relaxed. If your shoulders are tense, your throat will tense."
"Well, I have to stay upright. If I relax any more I'll be lying on the floor!"
Christine had gotten frustrated with his reminders on her posture. Erik sighed. "You are not relaxed."
"Yes, I am," she growled.
Here goes nothing. Erik stood from the bench stood in front of her. Christine glowered. "May I touch you, Christine?"
She stuck out her chin. "Fine."
"Turn, please."
Erik pressed his fingertips lightly into the back of her neck, then slipped down to her shoulders. One knot on the right side. Down a bit to her shoulder blades. A bit of pressure—
With a gasp, Christine curled over and nearly fell to the floor.
"Christine!" Erik cried, catching her arm and settling her on the piano bench. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you." He frowned. It certainly explained why she hadn't drawn a full breath that day. "You have a back spasm. How did this happen?"
"Earlier this week." Her words were gasped, catching on pain as she inhaled. "I hauled the gear for the third grade ballerinas on their field trip. I thought it was gone."
"No, when they're this bad they just go numb." He very lightly traced her back to find the edges of the hardened spasm. It was small but nasty, the center of it an angry knot. "No lifting until this is better. Heat, rest, and ibuprofen. Warm ups only for the rest of the week." He continued to stroke her back as her breathing loosened into smooth breaths.
"I still have to work." She leaned against him. The curve of her was… nice.
"Hmm."
The next day, Christine found a wheeled file box and a camping wagon tucked by her locker.
…
On his desk, tucked by his mouse, was a little box, wrapped in silver paper and closed with entirely too much tape. Erik wrestled through the tape and peeled off the wrapping paper, morbidly curious as to who
would get him a gift. A completely random, unexpected gift.
Nestled on a bit of nylon fluff, sat nestled a pair of… cufflinks. One treble clef and the other was a bass clef. They were cheap. They were tacky- the silver-tone coating on them was already flaking off. Erik was about to close the box and throw it out when the fluff fell to the side and a note dropped out.
Thanks for the wagon, you sneak. – Christine
The treble clef was heavier, and it clinked against his desk as he typed.
...
The coffee pots in the kitchen were full so Erik took his time. As long as Dr. Allen was stalking him, wielding a flash drive loaded with music he wanted adapted for the school, Erik would find an excuse to linger.
It was decent coffee, which was nearly enough reason on it's own. Nearly. But Christine drank coffee too, and when she snuck into the kitchen between her classes they talked of nothings, filling time that didn't belong to them.
…
Erik looked down at his phone as he carefully wiped the mask clean. Nadir would still be awake, maybe. He'd want to hear about all of this... maybe.
No, he would wait until the visit. Nadir needed this; needed time away from him. All these years, how could he stand it? Stand being with him, knowing what happened and how and everything after? Maybe he should cancel the visit and let Nadir have that time, too. Taper it off, now that they were both moving on.
He left his phone on the counter next to the spotless and shined mask and wandered to the piano. He filled the empty house with nothings that very clearly belonged to someone else.
…