The growing summer heat was harsh in the city. Humidity lingered. Erik enjoyed being well-dressed (practically overdressed, as Nadir would say it), but the harsh temperatures that forced his body into a neverending state of perspiration were a burden on his clothes as well as his wallet. No single online tutorial or home remedy could seem to solve his little problem with sweat stains, so to the dry cleaners it was. This year, to his pleasure, his favorite place to purchase clothes was coming out with a new line of dress shirts designed for people with his same exact problem, something a bit more breathable for the summertime.
"Would you like the pink or the blue?" the woman helping him asked, holding two dress shirts up for his viewing. Both were pale in color, fitting to his tastes.
"I'll take both." He needed more clothes anyways. It had been a while since he had shopped for his closet. He used to enjoy it, searching online for odd yet elegant articles of clothing he could add to his wardrobe. Sometimes he would go to fabric stores just to peruse and end up stumbling upon something unique, later having it turned into a waistcoat for him.
"Would you like us to tailor it here for you today? I can do it. It will only cost another twenty for each and you can pick them up in a few days."
Erik nodded. "Sure." He knew he would need it anyways. Men of his size and stature were not very common, so everything he bought had to be tailored. Either that or he looked like a child trying on his father's clothes, an unusually tall child at that.
He stood in the center of the dressing room, the walls to his left and right taken by a few individual stalls for trying on clothes. In front of him stood several mirrors angled so that one may see every side of themselves.
"Put one of the shirts on and I'll return with my tailoring supplies," the woman said, leaving the room after having hung his shirts nearby.
Erik thought to enter one of the stalls, but he was certain that no one else was there in the store, so he settled for dressing in front of the mirrors. He watched someone from the corner of his eye, walking in as he began buttoning the blue shirt from the bottom up. He turned to regard the person, thinking it was the woman helping him.
"Erik?" Christine said, stopping in her tracks, three solid black dresses in her arms.
"Christine," he retorted with a smile.
He noticed her eyes cut towards his chest, his shirt a third of the way buttoned. From his right shoulder down to the center of his chest his skin was discolored and puckered, part of the reward for his survival of The Accident. He turned, not wanting to burden her with his body.
Christine saw the pain in his eyes. For a small moment she imagined the skin beneath his mask looking just the same.
"I…" she began. She didn't mean to stare at him. He looked to her, fingers at the final button. "I'm sorry."
Erik managed a smile. Although gentle, it was pained. "It's fine." His words were nearly inaudible.
Christine turned towards a open stall, trying to push the awkward exchange off. "Getting some new shirts?" she asked, setting her dresses on the small chair in one of the separate dressing rooms.
"Yeah," he replied, straightening his cuffs and pulling the sleeves down. "It's about that time for me."
Christine laughed, her chuckle warm and girly.
"Getting some new dresses?" he asked, not wanting their conversation to seize.
"Yeah," Christine sighed, standing in the doorway to continue speaking to him. "Mamma's sister passed away Thursday afternoon, and we've got her funeral next Friday."
Erik frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that." Another death in her life, another person removed.
Christine shrugged and the woman helping Erik entered the room. "Well, I'm going to go try on these dresses," Christine said with a smile before she shut the door to her stall.
It wasn't until Erik and the lady had moved onto his next shirt that Christine emerged from her dressing room, sneaking a small look at him in the mirror. They met eyes and she smiled.
"Looking spiffy," she teased.
Erik chuckled for a moment, his body bouncing with him. The lady helping him smiled, stopping her pinning for a moment to allow him to laugh. "How were the dresses?" he asked.
"I was going to ask the same thing," the woman chimed in.
Christine sighed. "All beautiful, but I've boiled it down to two." She stared admiringly at the dress on top of the others draped over her arms. "I've got to decide, I guess."
"Why don't you get both?" Erik asked.
Christine pouted her lips, considering it. "I'm not too fond of having a lot of dark clothes in my closet. I used to, but Mamma made me get rid of them, said I would be happier." She smiled, her teeth sparkling with her as she turned to meet his eyes once more in the mirror. "And honestly I have."
Erik took note to dress more colorfully when he saw her. "Well, let's see the dresses you've decided upon."
Christine did not hesitate, setting her pile on top of an empty velvet chair. She pulled the first one, holding it in front of her and moving so that he could see in the mirror. Erik and the lady helping him watched her thoughtfully, glazing over every detail of the dress. It would be easier to form a better opinion on it if she were wearing, he thought. But he didn't want her to have to go back through the entire process of dressing and undressing.
"The next?" Erik asked.
Christine set the dress down and pulled her final choice. It was not as plain as the other in terms of style. It was much younger, much more lively, even against the blackness of it all.
"That one," Erik decided for her. Christine made a face as if she were thinking against in, leaning more towards the other. "I think you'd look lovely in the lace," he explained. He watched her cheeks flush for a moment and her lips twitched into a little smile.
"Thank you." She turned, picking up her pile, and left for checkout.
"Girlfriend?" the lady helping asked as soon as she was gone, resuming her pinning.
Erik's fingers twitched. The fact that she had even considered it to be a possibility… it gave him hope that others could picture them two together. Then it hit him: he had a choice. He could only tell the truth, he couldn't bring himself to lie to this woman, but how much of the truth could he reveal? He thought for a moment. He could not bring himself to admit his love to even his best friend, although his friend already knew it. But this woman, a woman he might never see again until his next visit to the store, he felt it wouldn't matter and that, somehow, he would be relieved from the weight of it all, finally admitting to his affections.
"I wish," he replied with a small sigh. Those two words could've been filled by any emotion, but Erik chose to fill them with hope and longing.
The woman smiled. "Don't wait too long." Erik eyed her in the mirror, waiting for more insight into the world of love which he so desperately wished to delve into. She noticed. "I loved once," she continued, "But I never got the courage to speak up."
"But your ring?" Erik had noted the wedding band on the woman's finger.
She smiled. "I am married. Twelve years." Her eyes saddened, her smile faltering. "But as it seems we are sharing secrets, I will admit I have yet to feel the things that boy had made me feel so long ago with my husband."
Erik fell tense. This woman who was blessed to find love that could last a lifetime still was not satisfied. And out there, in the front of the store, stood the woman who walked his dreams. Happiness and satisfaction. A lifetime of it.
After the woman finished tailoring Erik's shirts, she rang him up to get his information so that he may be called back to pick them up. As they did so, Christine was leaving the store with her dress. He watched her through the windows as she crossed the street to a music store.
Erik finished at check out and headed over, leaving the store with an exchange of 'thank you very much!' and 'see you soon!' The music store was small, a few customers perusing over the music, and someone testing out an electric keyboard. He walked about, finding Christine sitting in the far back corner on a stool, a guitar in her hands and her dress hanging in its place on the wall. Erik could not recognize the song she was strumming.
"What's that?" he asked softly, approaching her.
Christine looked up at him in a jolt, surprised by his presence, then at the head of the guitar. "Taylor," she read.
Erik laughed lightly. "I meant the song."
She appeared to shrink for a moment, her shoulders hunching forward defensively. "Just something I wrote."
"Does it have words?"
She looked to him, her eyes as soft as sheep's wool. "It does."
"Can you sing it for me?"
Christine shook her head, looking towards the guitar as she hid behind a side of her hair. "It's not all that good."
He squinted at her for a moment, hoping to see a sliver of confidence within her—a hint that she was just being modest. It did not come. She truly believed her song was no good. He saw opportunity and took it.
"Maybe I could help you then." Her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he pulled a nearby stool to sit on. "I'm a bit of a musician myself."
"Really?" She hadn't imagined it. But then she did see it: his long fingers walking across the keys of a piano. Yes, hands of a pianist. Most definitely.
Erik nodded. "It's been some time since I've written anything, but I think I can help you. If you want."
Christine shook her head. "I don't know. I'm not really comfortable playing it in front of others."
Erik held back his desire to scoff. He knew her words were not true. He saw the life radiating from her as she played at the bar. She enjoyed the exhilaration and intimacy of it all. "You play in front a crowd every Thursday night. What's wrong with playing right now?"
Christine strummed a single chord softly for comfort, her fingers muting it as she avoided his eyes. "Playing your own music is… it's different."
Erik sat there blinking for a few moments. She was afraid. "Do you like that guitar?" he asked, gesturing to the one in her hands.
She looked to it as if she forgot which one she'd pulled from the wall. "Yeah. It's nice."
"If you sing your song for me, I'll purchase it for you." He knew it was a dirty trick to use the guitar as a bribe, but he couldn't help it. Anything to pull her out, pull that beautiful voice and soul out for his viewing and wrap his arms around her and tell her everything was fine and she didn't need to hide.
Christine looked at him wide-eyed and stunned. She shook her head. "No, you can't do that."
"Why not?"
She eyed the tag for a moment, already having its price memorized. "It's… it's expensive."
"So?" Money did not matter to him. He had plenty to spare, especially if it was for her.
Christine held tightly to the guitar now, unsure.
"I won't judge your songwriting, Christine. I promise. I just want to hear it," he spoke, his voice a soft reflection of the honesty in his words. He was ready to shower her with words of love and praise no matter what.
Christine sighed, forcing her shoulders to relax. She strummed out the first few opening chords and began singing about love and loss. Her voice was sad as was the song. Erik picked out a few things he would tweak, but overall it was lovely and it was her song. She had written it. And with that voice of hers? He wished to hear it again. He couldn't understand why she had been so nervous.
"That was beautiful," he said, gawking.
Christine smiled, her eyes flashing to him for a brief moment. The look of pure wonder and awe made her look away, her cheeks warming.
"Who was it about?" He had recognized it as a love song.
Christine took a moment for herself before answering softly. "My father."
"Your father would be proud." Christine looked to Erik, her eyes asking: you really think so? Erik stood, looking towards the tiled ceiling as if it were the sky. "In fact, I have a feeling he might be smiling from the Heavens right now."
Christine giggled, her body completely relaxing with her, relieved he had enjoyed her music. "I hope so."
"I know so," Erik retorted, his eyes fixing back on her. He recalled his promise. "Come now, let's get you that guitar."
Erik purchased her the guitar and a new case so that she could carry it home safely.
"Thank you for this," Christine said, gesturing to the guitar strapped on her back as they walked out of the store.
Erik smiled. "No problem. I hope you keep playing."
"I don't plan on stopping any time soon."
Erik glanced between each of her eyes, wishing to kiss her right then. Kiss her for sharing her music with him and kiss her for having said she did not foresee a future without music. "Good," he replied with a small nod, his voice practically breathless.
Christine was smiling so brightly now. She was happy and so was he to see her that way, her eyes absent of the sadness he'd first recognized within them. "So you said you've written some music of your own?" she asked.
Erik nodded. "It's been some time, but yeah, I used to write."
Christine smiled. "What instrument?"
"Piano and a few others."
She giggled. "I thought so. Could you play me something someday?"
Erik shrugged. "If you want."
She looked down the street in the direction of her apartment building then back at him. "Would you like to go on a walk with me?"
Erik replied with a nod, not even asking where to. She beckoned him to follow, turning her back to the direction she had been looking. It was sundown and the street was bustling as it always would Saturday evening. Erik took Christine's dress for her, wanting to lighten her load.
"Have you been to Madeleine's before?" Christine asked, smiling with a certain bounce in her step.
Erik tried to recall the handful of places he'd visited in the city, not seeing a Madeleine's anywhere. "I don't believe so," he replied.
"You're in for a treat then!" she squealed, sounding most excited.
Madeleine's, Erik found out, was an ice cream shop. A popular one at that. He squinted towards the black chalkboard menu, overwhelmed by his options.
"How do you make any sense of this?" Erik asked, having to raise his voice over the crowd so that Christine could hear.
She giggled. "First you choose whether you want a cone or cup, then you choose what size cup or what type of cone, then you choose which flavor-"
Erik groaned. "Just get me whatever you're getting."
Christine placed two orders of coffee-flavored ice cream with chocolate syrup and cocoa puffs in a small cup. She reached for her wallet to retrieve some cash to pay, but as she did so, Erik's arm cut in front of her, inserting his card into the chip reader. She frowned, looking up at him with a squint.
"What?" he asked, smiling mischievously.
Christine moved out of his way so that he could insert his pin number. "You know very well what."
He laughed, giving his signature. She retrieved a few ones from her wallet anyways and tossed them in the tip jar.
"Thank you. Your order will be out shortly," the boy behind the register smiled, handing Erik the receipt.
They sat outside with their ice cream, somewhat away from the crowd. Christine huffed in resignation as she leaned her guitar against the bench, seating herself by Erik. "The very least you could've done was allow me to pay for the ice cream."
"And miss the opportunity to irritate you? I think not," Erik replied, scooping a small spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.
"Oh you are wicked," Christine uttered, shooting him a playful scowl.
"Not as wicked as you having ice cream before dinner."
She laughed. "It's why I got the small."
Erik tutted, submerging his spoon back into his cupful. "Even the smallest portions are enough to spoil your meal."
Christine rolled her eyes, starting at her ice cream. "You know," she said, swallowing her first bite, "I applied for a job here."
"Didn't get it?" Erik asked.
"No," she shook her head. "But I applied when the place was just opening. I'm glad I didn't get it. They're always so busy."
Erik nodded, watching people walking in and out through the door, the poor thing never having a chance to rest. "So where do you work?"
Christine laughed. "You seem to know so much about me, I want to know more about you first."
Erik watched as she twisted towards him, pulling her leg up onto the bench and allowing it to fill the space between them. Her eyes narrowed as she tried thinking of what to ask. He swallowed, fearing he would again have to recount what had happened to him so long ago.
"How long have you been playing the piano?"
Erik relaxed, shrugging. "As long as I could remember. My father said I was always a bit restless and it was the only thing that they could find to get me to settle down."
Christine laughed. "Why not sports?"
Erik shrugged. "I was too young to start and after..." his voice drifted off. He had feared telling her yet here he was, trapped. Maybe he hadn't really feared telling her. Maybe he wanted to tell her.
"After what?" Christine asked innocently.
He swallowed, looking towards the concrete beneath their feet. "After this," he said, gesturing to his face without gesturing at all, "I wasn't really fit for being around other children."
Christine sat still, listening and waiting for more. Oh there it is, he thought. The silence of pity. Not what he wanted. Never what he wanted. Especially not from her.
"I was three," he continued, incapable of stopping. They were at it now. Might as well. "My mother was driving me to day care and this driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and hit us hard." Christine watched his eyes as he retold what happened. His mother dead at the wheel, the car engulfed in flames, his body being pulled from the car. He shook his head, hand shaking on his spoon. "I just..." he looked to her, eyes roaming over her face, "I just thought you might wish to know. It's usually the first thing everyone asks me."
Christine shoved her spoon into what was left of her ice cream, reaching for his hand with her now free one. He stilled for a second, surprised by how tenderly she held him for the moment, and pulled away gently but swiftly.
"Please," he said, eyes filled with plea, "No pity."
Christine retracted her hand as if she had regretted touching him. She slowly returned to her ice cream, thinking of how to resolve the awkward silence that now filled the gap between them.
"I have a scar too," she said suddenly, wanting to relate to him in some way.
He turned to her, furrowing his brows in a concerned manner as he swallowed another bite.
"I could-" she cut herself off, looking down at her jeans with a sad smile. "Well, I could've shown you if I were wearing shorts."
Erik chuckled. It warmed his heart that she was trying. His chuckle seemed to help her because she crossed her legs, looking forward with sparkling eyes.
"I also have a lot of stretch marks from when I was growing so fast. They're faded now."
"Growing?" Erik teased with a raised brow.
"Shut up!" she yelled, playfully hitting his shoulder.
"La plus petite mais la plus adorable fleur du jardin."
Christine blushed, setting her feet flat on the ground. "La ferme," she replied softly.
Erik tensed. He didn't think she had understood. "You speak French?"
She nodded slowly, silently.
"I didn't expect that from you."
"Well I was the one who named our band Mephistopheles after the character in Faust." She still spoke softly.
"Mephistopheles," he repeated. "So that's your band's name?"
She laughed. "You didn't know?"
"Well, I didn't remember after the first time and I didn't catch it the second."
Christine laughed, recalling the night she first met him.
"But Faust," he said, fascinated and turning himself like she had before, his knee on the bench. "How come a girl like you performing rock music just so happens to also be into opera?"
She shrugged, smiling. "My father was a classical musician."
"Really?" he asked, his fascination growing.
"Really," she laughed.
"What did he play?"
"Violin."
Erik smiled. "I can play violin too."
"Really?" Christine asked, surprised by how much she didn't know of this guy.
"Really," he replied with a nod.
She finished off her ice cream. "You should come over sometime and play it then. I still have his instrument laying around somewhere."
He smiled. "I'd love to."
They disposed of their empty cups and spoons, heading back to her apartment complex, the sun absent from the sky.
"Thanks again," Christine said, taking her dress off Erik's hands once they'd reached the building.
"No problem," he replied, grinning.
"I'll see you Thursday?" she asked.
Erik nodded. "If I don't run into you again."
Christine backed towards the doors, laughing. "Of course! Goodnight, Erik."
"Goodnight," he replied, turning towards the cabs and looking back once to make sure she was inside the building.
Christine laid in bed, trying to go to sleep. Her body was exhausted and she thought that was enough to send her deep into sleep, but her mind kept her up. She huffed in frustration, music playing through her head, a chord progression that was digging away at her. She knew if she stayed in this position for another hour longer she would fall asleep and she would lose the music, waking in the morning in a bout of frustration, unable to recall the progression.
She sat up, flicking on the lamp beside her before stumbling her way to the new guitar standing in her corner, lifting it off the floor. The inside rang as one of its sides lightly hit the wall. She hissed at the noise and brought it back with her into her bed. She ran her hand over the side, feeling for any dents or cracks in the wood. To her relief, she found nothing. So many times she'd ran her hand over that side in the small music store. The image of it in her room, with her on stage, only crossed her mind once or twice. She thought she could never afford it, but found there would be no guilt in visiting it at the store she frequented so long as she remained a loyal customer, constantly purchasing new picks as she'd misplace or have them stolen from other musicians at the bar frequently.
She found the chords in her head, recreated them on the guitar. But what to sing? Anger for her ex flowed through her, filling her every vain and burning her heart. No, these chords were much sweeter. He was undeserving of a song anyways. Maybe something for Mamma?
She tried playing the chords once more, but words didn't come to mind. She started over, repeating the progression again and again. She decided the first song she would write with this guitar would be about the very man who bought it for her, the same man who made her feel as if she should write and that her music was worthy of being heard. Erik.
A/N: I can't speak French, but I think I found a pretty decent translator online (not Google). Apologies to those who can actually speak/read it if the translations are butchered. Thanks for reading!