Okay, this is barely edited. YOLO
The Plagiarist
Two thick paper cups sent twin wisps of steam that curled and tumbled through the air. Erik blew a little puff at the cup lids and sent the orderly trails into chaos.
With the office door closed, the repeated thumps and crashing of the percussion line were acceptably muffled. The vibration still carried in the pipes, lending a metallic ring to the walls like a twanging guitar string, but acceptable nonetheless.
For the past two weeks, Erik had pulled full days at the theater, slogging through the work of property and venue management while lending his support and direction to the music director and stage manager, only to stay up long past the point of reason to accompany Christine.
She was an addiction. Perhaps not unlike his devotion to coffee, but infinitely more satisfying.
He rose from his seat and double checked that the office door was locked, then silenced his phone. The house orchestra was nearly prepped and the singing parts were coming together as well, so as long as the building held, they looked to be on schedule.
With a sigh of relief, Erik slipped the mask off and set it on a pad, then reached for the first cup. It was a little too hot, but fine. When the coffee is brewed by the stagehands, you know it's going to do the job.
They stayed up much too late the night before. Erik had encouraged Christine to mix up her preferred standards with some more playful, lyric intense work and a little opera. Nothing serious, just to have her try to really open up. She was by no means an operatic singer, but he was desperate to feel her voice, not just hear it.
She'd struggled to harness and control her strength for the short piece, and started laughing when her voice simply ghosted her in a high note. Not embarrassed, not ashamed, simply recognition. And that was good. Fun, even.
It could be fun adapting the piece he was writing for a less archaic sound. Besides, he was writing for the voice she had, not because he thought she had nothing more to offer, but because he rather liked the little scrapes and catches in it.
Perhaps he could use them. Sometimes flaws highlight beauty.
The second cup had cooled slightly and went down faster. When it was drained, Erik folded his arms on his desk and set his head down. Coffee naps were a godsend and when he next opened his eyes he fully expected to be full speed ahead for the rest of the day. For now, though, he was asleep by the time his screen darkened after setting the alarm. Asleep and dreaming of beauty.
…
Christine had to stretch to reach the tea cups. A thin strip of her exposed skin made Erik look back at the keys.
"Why are all the important things so high up?" she teased with a smile as she turned on the kettle and measured tea for them both.
The next day he bought a step stool for his kitchen.
…
A cold front had blown in earlier in the day, and Christine spread her arms wide in front of the French doors. Wind flapped the edges of her oversized shirt like wings.
She turned and grinned, her cheeks bright and pink. "That feels so good after singing!"
Erik handed her a fresh drink and breathed in the night. "Careful, if you get cold I'll make you take a day off." He'd still play for her, though. She could relax on the couch while he took requests, and wasn't that just a wild idea?
"I'd better go bundle up then," Christine said, and turned to leave.
"Wait," Erik said and swept up a buttery soft throw blanket from his couch. He set it lightly over Christine's shoulders. "Better?"
She blinked, fingering the short fringe. "Is this new?"
"No?" He'd noticed that her skin prickled on cool nights.
She raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. "Well, either way, thank you," she said, snuggling the blanket around her. Erik had never been jealous of textiles before. Her ice rattled a few moments later.
"Get you another?" he asked.
"Might as well, since I'm nice and warm now," Christine said.
Erik had never been one for decorating, but he thought he'd matched the blanket to the color her eyes fairly well from memory.
…
There was a storm in the distance. Clouds played king of the mountain and punched through layer after layer while Christine sang a little Harry Connick Jr. When Erik called it, they stood on the balcony to watch the lightning illuminate voluptuous details before darkening into purple lumps once again.
He sipped his coffee. He still had work to do tonight. "You know, you don't ask."
A ringlet had flopped out of the pins and her tea smelled like flowers. "About what?"
"The mask."
She was quiet for a moment, then adjusted her glasses. "You don't ask about my ex husband."
A bolt of lighting crawled along the outside of the clouds before impaling the cottony mass again. He had once, but they'd been a little drunk, and she'd started it. Erik swirled his coffee and shrugged. "You deserve your privacy."
"Hmmm…" Christine sipped her tea with a little smile. A woosh of thunder-scented air accompanied a rumble and she stepped closer, lightly tucked against his side.
Oh. Oh.
"Christine?"
She tilted her head up, peering at him. "Mmm?" The balcony light caught in her glasses.
Logistics. They'd get pressed against the mask and bruise the bridge of her nose. Or worse, they'd knock the mask loose, or knock her glasses off and then they'd fall off the balcony. So he wrapped an arm around her and touched his chin to the top of her head. Christine put her arm around his waist and leaned into him.
"Thank you, Christine."
The storm moved off, trailing a dwindling light show as it died out and leaving behind unsatisfied, charged air.
...
On Friday, Erik locked his office, looking forward to being home. The third weekend of the month had rolled around again and once the Saturday morning book reading for the kids was done, the debauchery would begin. Erik would happily stay away and let his troupe run the show.
The worst they'd ever done was miswire their lighting and rigging, resulting in a strobe show that the guests loved, even if a few ended up with headaches. So, content to escape for a few hours, Erik relaxed and poured a drink while the shower warmed up.
What to play tonight? Perhaps a few showtunes, and then see how she liked what he was writing? He wouldn't tell her he was composing it for her yet, but he could play what he'd written so far and see if she liked it. If she did, he might be able to convince her to sing on stage. He would play and see her bathed in a spotlight and she would fill his theater with her voice.
A funny little flutter inside, then a thump in his ears. Christ, when had he last felt like this? Had he ever? It wasn't like the odds had ever been in his favor. For all the messaging on loving the person for what was inside, there sure was a huge, obsessive market for the outside. If none of it was an option, you simply made do with what you could get as the world's eyes skittered over you.
And yet Christine sang to him -with him- moving with the music they made. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, taking the cues and mirroring him. More flutters.
Get a grip, she'd be on her way any minute and he was getting mushy. As Erik finished applying the cream, his phone chirped.
.
Mr. Satis got into something in the gardens. Sick. Rain check?
.
Well, damn. He'd planned on opening a red tonight. Cliché as it may be, red went well with Schönberg, and he'd yet to hear her sing Les Miz.
.
Sure. Need anything?
.
Erik didn't relish the idea of running errands on behalf of a vomitous dog, but if it helped bring Christine back…
His phone chirped again.
.
No, just need to crash. Maybe a lullabye?
.
He played Chopin until his eyes crossed.
…
On Saturday afternoon, while beloved and tattered scenes were carefully placed and his Steinway was secured, Erik toyed with his phone until he couldn't wait any longer to send a message. It would have been the perfect time, but he couldn't compose like this, not the piece he was working on. He could only let the handful of bars dance in his ears.
.
How are you and Mr. Pretty today?
.
It took her a few minutes to reply. Erik kept tapping the screen so it would not go dark.
.
He's keeping food down now. Got my place clean finally, so a little frazzled. You?
.
He'd had a slow day, popping into his office while children piled onto the stage to hear a story and one of the violinists play a few songs. Then he'd come home and stared at his phone.
.
Fine. A few errands, now home. Do anything for you?
.
Minutes. He drifted by the French doors and glanced at the sky. He wasn't used to seeing the sun, even as it lowered, and his eyes watered. Wandered off to the kitchen, his hands tapping music over every surface.
.
Will you play a song for me? Anything, just something special. Rough night.
.
Oh. He could do that. Definitely.
Erik smiled as he dug a grapefruit from his fridge.
.
Give me ten.
.
Fortune favored the bold, so he poured a double greyhound and considered. It had been two months. Two months of a neverending glissando leading… where?
Elton. Elton had a way with words and maybe he could do the talking tonight. Like looking at the sun, the biggest things in life sometimes had to be done indirectly. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe, like Christine and opera, he just knew his limits.
At nine minutes, as the sky was only just changing colors, Erik opened the French doors and let the oncoming sunset light the piano. It was a warm, honey gold light, and it gilded the keys with highlights, catching on the marks where his hands had been. Faint prints, evidence of use. Of adoration.
There was a step stool with no one there to use it, and though the cold never bothered him much, there were now three blankets laid over the couch in colors Christine liked. They weren't neatly folded or on a shelf, but kept draped over the arm of the couch, ready. Evidence of use. Of adoration.
The fallboard was heavy tonight, but the first notes sparkled. If she had misread him, then he would not let it continue. He let the song fly, offering up the borrowed words because he didn't have his own yet. These were as honest as anything he could ever say, now that he realized what he wanted to say.
A beat. Two. Then the next song.
Erik's eyes slid closed as he played this sweetest plagiarism, as real as the stool and blankets and the buzz he got from killing a bottle with her. From playing for her. Her. The funny feeling she gave him and how empty he was when she wasn't there. He didn't write this song but it was hers now, so he sang it softly for her. Softly, so the words did not carry. Calligraphy in vapor.
He'd make it up to her, replace these stolen stanzas with his own. She could spear him with it if she chose, but they would be his to give. Until then, how wonderful life was with her in the world.
As he inhaled to deliver the last line, someone beat him to it.
His eyes flew open to find Christine, her curls untamed and free, singing as she walked to him. The light from the balcony spotlighted her in soft gold, paralyzing Erik at the bench.
"Christine?" he choked out, his hands numbly patting out uneven notes, unsure of what else they could do.
She sat close to him on the bench, facing the kitchen. "You left the door unlocked," she said and rested her head against his shoulder.
Erik's throat closed for a moment when a coil of her dark hair slid over his arm and caught the sunset, sparkling red and gold. "I always leave it unlocked for you," he said.
Her arm slid under his, wrapping lightly around him, sending his skin into a flurry of sensation where she brushed his shirt, his waist, and opened her hand against his side. Fingertips against his ribs like piano keys.
"Will you play for me?" she asked. A breath, as though she would say more, but she only turned her head and looked up at him. Erik could see himself in her eyes. Could see the mask, the false contours that he offered. People's eyes fixated on it when he spoke to them, favoring the edges and his mouth, avoiding the porcelain. But they had to get past it to look him in the eye.
Christine met him eye to eye. When her gaze dropped to his mouth, his insides clenched, tight and swirling.
He knew what to play.
There wasn't much written, not yet, but he had six bars and a few elaborations. It was a beginning. A refrain. The center of his dream.
By the third bar, Christine's hand had drifted to the center of his chest. On the second repeat, he added variations and trills, an expansion. He softened for the third, an improvised resolution for an incomplete score. Three bars in, her hand fisted in his shirt.
Her glasses clacked against porcelain, and her lips…
Time broke. The metronome of his life, marking the hours with endless ticks and swings, hit a snag. His hands were still on the piano.
"Erik?" he heard. Christine was so very close, her breath on his chin.
It wasn't his fault. Time had failed, but it returned in a mad rush. He yanked his hands from the keys and slid them into her wild hair. It was theft, these kisses, this tender larceny.
Erik could not imagine anything more succulent. Her lips were soft, fully ripe and sweet and she traced them along the seam of his mouth until he let her in, guiding him through the steps of a dance he'd nearly forgotten.
With her curls wrapped around his fingers like ivy, Erik pulled Christine closer, halfway cradling her across his lap. The curves and angles of her, the understated beauty of her neck. When her fingernails scratched a light path on his back, Erik hauled in a ragged breath and raised his heels to bring her closer.
"Oh, Christine," he whispered against her skin. Not a religious man, but it sounded like a prayer. He nudged her cheek with his forehead and dragged his lips along her neck, over the ridges of her throat, and felt the fast pulse of her heartbeat against his mouth.
Christine tugged at his shirt and pulled him down for another kiss. Wet and sliding, and when she drew back, they were both panting, her fingers tucked between the buttons on his shirt. Sparks of touch on his bare chest. A tiny tug and then cool air where she was opening his shirt. Erik leaned his head back, loose and boneless. Lips on his neck; a wonder, a flame.
Touch, the bridge that spanned the gap between longing and having. Her hand on his back, stroking squeezing scratching. Then, a curious pause.
"Erik, I need to go check on the dog."
His eyes fell back open. "What?" he slurred. Those could not have been the words.
"I left so fast," she explained, and traced a thumb over his bottom lip.
Erik moaned softly. Who knew a moan could be in a minor key? He kissed her thumb and trailed his lips to her wrist. Any part of her near his mouth was fair game.
"I left my computer rendering and Mr. Satis needs to go out before…" her eyes dipped to his mouth, and her lips parted.
Not a man to turn down an invitation, Erik bent to kiss her again, but was stopped by her hand on his chest.
"Ten minutes. Give me ten minutes? I'll be right back," Christine said, then kissed him before she headed to the door.
…
Erik showered and had a bottle open in record time. At seven minutes he had fresh sheets on his bed. At nine, he poured wine and set the glasses on the little table.
At ten minutes, his phone chirped.
.
He didn't keep the food down. I'm so sorry.
.
Erik stared at his phone and reached for one of the glasses. Annoyed with himself and a rat dog, he looked around, desperate for something to say. Tile entry, low pile carpet. Couch. Piano. The bedroom had a bed, a chest of drawers, small tables, and a laundry basket. The filing cabinet of music was in his closet. It's a bit bland, in truth. It's space that belongs to a man whose attention was elsewhere.
He swallowed hard as typed his reply.
.
Me too. Coffee tomorrow morning? Want to show you something.
.
Christine had made the first move. He could make the second. He would show her where he devoted himself. Maybe she could make it a place for him to come alive again. God, yes. But after the cleaners were done. God help them if they left behind any fishnets.