The last month flashes before Erik's eyes as he prepares to play for Christine's debut.
.
She wore gold.
.
Holiday seasons at the theater were magnificently, horrifyingly busy, and this one especially so. By the time one show left the stage, the next was setting up in the wings. Quartets performed amidst crumbling Nutcracker sets while bleary-eyed stagehands apologetically cleared bits between songs and the madrigal singers, twinkling bold in red and green, gave side-eyes to slippered pastel confections of snowflakes and fairies.
Keeping the peace was a full time job. So was coordinating the whole mess. But for the first time he had help, which meant he slept every night. He even had time to work with Christine, but only on the music.
Of course Erik worried. He didn't need to.
...
A small desk had been enough for Christine's computer, and though his piano looked a little cramped after they shifted it closer to the wall, he didn't mind. When they were both working it was easy to reach out and find her.
Unsurprisingly, Erik didn't accomplish much from home that first week.
They had finished practicing for the evening, so Christine worked on a layout for a new job while he'd relaxed at the keys, his phone on stand by while his crew ran the prep for the first Nutcracker. Classic interludes traded measures with pieces of new ideas. A notebook lived at his side these days and the pages filled quickly with hastily jotted measures and bits of lyrics. The new soundscape of his life took shape there, too.
His space had transformed. The sound of her favorite cup touching down. The thoughtful ring of a spoon against ceramic blending with his music. The way she took her coffee was becoming as familiar as the feel of her.
Contentment. It was more intoxicating than anything in his cabinet, yet made him sharper, more creative, than he'd ever felt before. Her song had only been the beginning. This feeling… it flowed smooth and thick. Syrup in his veins. Delicious.
She leaned back and stretched, apparently satisfied with her current work.
"Did you have that phone call today?"
"I did," he said as he bridged into a nocturne. "They gave me some things to think about."
Christine stood and took her cup to the kitchen for more coffee. "Such as?" She refilled his as well. Effortless, she did little things without thinking.
He let the notes fade, thanked her and took his cup back. "They like the place. That donor who had the tour the other day is the vice president. He decided the old girl is a worthy cause."
"Hmm," she hummed as she sipped, then sat in her chair and propped her legs in his lap. "Any specifics?"
And what lovely legs they were. "He liked the entryway. Thinks it's worth restoring." He absently stroked up her calf. "And some of the old electricals."
Christine smiled. "That big switch you like so much?"
"I love that switch. They can put up matching funds, help with grants, and find more donors, things like that. It's not a lot of money, but they liked the schedule and regular shows."
She set her cup on her desk. "What's the catch?"
Erik shrugged, thumbing the hollow behind her knee. "There's paperwork. It's nitpicky stuff, but even a few grants would secure the next decade or more."
"That's not a catch."
He snorted and tugged her closer. "It is if you hate paperwork."
Christine wrapped herself around him. "Let me worry about the paperwork. You keep the doors open."
Words. There were words he wanted to say, but they got caught halfway. Somewhere between his stuttering brain and his well-occupied tongue, those words took detours and ended up elsewhere.
The good news was they were going to get a lot done. The better news was that it was going to get done later.
On his cue, the big switch was lowered and the house lights dimmed. He loved this moment. It was why he bought the place; the energy, the sheer potential of an empty stage. That potential was shaped with every note, word, and movement.
And she wore gold.
...
During that last exhausted week he stole a quarter hour here and there. It was hard to get more since so much was happening. That was fine. Erik respected that. As a result, despite the strange hours they practiced, the crew and interns saw them, heard her. It was inevitable.
He hadn't paid much attention. He'd had enough to do to keep on schedule and to play and coach her. He'd set the mics himself and made sure there was balance. His playing and her voice, keeping time with his heart. His words caressed by her voice.
He should have known the stagehands would talk.
Their last few runs on the music had helped Christine be comfortable on the stage and adjust to the space. Knowing his theater's quirks, Erik was able to help her refine her approach. She shouldn't back off her volume in the second verse, the space could take it, and if her upper register was touched with a little strain it would read as emotion, not lack of skill.
He gave critique to the lighting guys at the same time; full haze with a touch of red. Even without costuming, she was great. By the third run, the light made her glow and her voice was tender, distilled passion.
It made him shudder.
The hour may have been extreme but the place was never empty this time of year. Cases of energy drinks were delivered every week, so it should have been no surprise when a few of them paused their frantic work to listen.
At the time, Erik thought nothing of it when a stagehand held up his phone.
His hands had always shown a curious readiness, an energy like the empty stage. He hovered over the keys, waiting for the polite applause to taper. Curious mumbles. She was an an unknown quantity that three radio stations had turned out for. Her half hour set, tucked between a holiday jazz improv session and the last amateur Nutcracker, had cross sectional appeal and a packed house to hear it.
Only the public radio station was allowed to record. Erik wasn't all sunshine these days.
He'd been clinical up to now, but that was before. It had only been their song then. Two hundred and fifty people were about to objectively pick apart his most intimate thoughts, his sing-song declaration, and his Christine.
His diva. The reason why he had not resented the hardest season and wrote music again. The reason he'd slept well for a month.
His hands knew the music. His heart knew the words. Both trembled.
...
The last showing of Rocky Horror for the year and the crew had pulled off the fastest prep Erik ever saw, including the time a set piece broke in half and left them scrambling. No amount of mental bleach could clear the image of his costumed interns shredding their pantyhose on duct tape and snagging their wigs on the jagged edges of the truncated piece.
They'd waited patiently for the last of the ballet attendees to leave before swooping in and enthusiastically helping to put away the painted plywood tree and cardboard box presents, bedroom set, and fireplace. While members of his company ran off to change, Erik decided to shave a few minutes off their prep and handle the AV himself.
The stage mics had caught pieces of their chatter.
They loved the ballet. A few relayed details of the amateur production and they all agreed to get tickets for the next show. One was going to audition for a spot on the company once one opened, and wasn't so and so heading to grad school soon?
Had they heard? There might be some money coming in soon if the Historical Society got involved? Had they ever seen the gorgeous tile mosaic under that ugly linoleum? Peel up the far corner and peek, but be careful- the linoleum was old and cracking.
Yes, he had an extra set of fishnets. No, don't touch the piano. The boss hated that.
Did you know the boss had a new show? His girlfriend was a singer and was going to perform next week.
The boss had a girlfriend? Cool. Of course they all had tickets.
His stage manager yelled too close to a mic and Erik snapped off the feed. Set up went quickly after that, but the echoes of their chatter remained.
The little toast chuckers loved the place. They even supported shows that weren't theirs. Not one mention of him as anything but 'the boss'. Erik checked the line outside and found it was around the block despite the blowing cold.
Maybe the little degenerates weren't so bad.
That last week was spent tightening up the lyrics, contouring stressed syllables carefully to the downbeats and the pauses brought in line. If he was honest, the childish meter of it all was almost embarrassing to read, but there was a reason everyone liked Dr. Seuss, right? And his words, set to music, floated on the wings of Christine's breath…
Viva.
They'd practiced late into the night and twisted in each other's arms after. It was everything. The rest of the set was an afterthought.
The announcement for Torch Hour was given to a full house, and the theater hummed in anticipation. The lights brought her into shimmering relief against the dark stage.
She wore gold.
From the pit he could barely see her. He stretched his hands over the keys and let the notes spill out in a rush. Words etched on his lips, spoken only in kisses, were hers now.
He would be able to use them once she set them free.
...
There's a word I'm thinking of
Don't know yet if it's real
I've not yet heard one said
That feels the way I feel
.
Like is not enough
And sweet is fine for food
But there's no word that I've heard yet
That captures my new mood
.
Refrain
Love may be the word
But that cannot be
Love was never meant
For someone built like me
.
It's quiet and it's soft
And sometimes bold and bright
It tempers heat of day
And gently warms the night
.
Refrain
What is this I feel
Not sure I've thought it through
Yet the empty pillow by my own
Still bears the shape of you
.
Refrain
Love may not be the word
Yet I know this much is true
Perhaps I was not built for love
But I was made for you
.
Perhaps I was not built for love
But I was made for you.
...
She wore gold. The rest was a blur.
...