Sorry it's been a while. Busy, busy, week, but hey, I'm finally twenty. Oh, and, I don't know the first thing about speaking French, so please forgive the online translator...translations.
Erik paced the apartment nervously, tossing aside yet another unacceptable article of clothing. What the hell had he been thinking?
Schubert's Unfinished Symphony filled the air, and he scowled at the injustice done to the piece, as well as his choice in ring tone.
He picked up his phone and looked at the number. "Ann…"
"Erik," she cut him off harshly. "Où l'enfer avez-vous été?" (Where the hell have you been?)
It was six thirty; he didn't have time to deal with the motherly ballerina. "Pas l'inquiétude, je suis beau. Je dois aller, ou je serai en retard. Au revoir." (Don't worry I'm fine. I have to go or I'll be late. Goodbye.)
He clicked it shut and turned it off. She'd call again.
Erik finally decided on a dark blue button down. He buttoned it up quickly, neglecting the top three; he couldn't stand to have anything even remotely tight around his neck.
When he got to her house he again second guessed himself. He'd never been on an actual in-public date, date, but maybe she wasn't even considering it that, just a dinner shared between acquaintances.
The front door opened, ending his contemplation, and a frazzled Chrissy came out. "Lee tried to call you; she said your phone wasn't on. The DA called her around three and she's been at the jailhouse since. She's going to be late. Oh god, is that rose for her? Oh no, no roses."
He looked at the single, blood red rose held gently in his hand. "I thought every woman loved roses."
"Yes, and that's exactly why Lee won't appreciate it at all. She'd say something long the lines of 'Well, that's rather cliché isn't it? Put a lot of thought into that one, didn't you?'."
Of course, that was exactly what she'd say. Erik handed the rose to Chrissy. "Why did she have to go to the jailhouse?"
"Something to do with this case she's on. The defense wanted to deal, Saturday be damned." She paused. "Lee's all worked up about this one. That child hardly ever sleeps like she should, but this last week it's been bad, even for her."
He scoffed. "They make pills for that."
Her laughter was bitter. "Yeah, they make pills for pain too, but do you think she takes any of them? Come on inside my place here. God only knows how long you'll have to wait for her."
Erik realized how carefully constructed Lee's front of invulnerability was. Her usually stoic persona was only interrupted by calculated deviations. She acted angry when it was appropriate to be angry.
"That doctor of hers, oh what's his name? Doctor O'Malley, he's been calling for the past three weeks wanting her to come in for a new procedure, repair the nerve damage or something, but she'll have none of that. The girl's had one surgery too many, and I think she sees the pain as some kind of sick challenge."
He looked around the bottom apartment. It was quite different from the top two stories. There were several more rooms, and the furniture was older, not as nice. Pictures were everywhere, some of people he'd never met, and many others of Chrissy and Lee.
"Her parents…" He let the question drop, realizing that it wasn't entirely appropriate.
"Died in a car accident when she was six months old. Her grandfather raised her; she's named after him ya know, William David Lee. He passed away when she was about fourteen."
That explained that, then. There was something else about her he was dying to know. "What's her first name?"
Chrissy laughed. "Oh, Lord child, she'd kill me if I told you. I think she thinks its blasphemy."
"It can't be that bad."
"It's not; it's a beautiful name."
"Now you've sparked my curiosity even further; you have to tell me."
"You promise you won't ever call her by it?"
"I swear."
"Her first name is Kyrie."
Erik grinned at the thought. "And what type of flower does Kyrie prefer?"
"Gladiolus, and you'd better just forget she even has a first name."
He slumped down onto a worn recliner and sighed. Maybe she hadn't wanted to go out with him after all and conspired with Chrissy to stand him up in a way which would not be entirely detrimental to his lacking self-esteem.
His theory was shot to hell when she walked through the door, an expression on her face he'd never seen before, and couldn't quite place.
She looked at him eagerly. "I'm sorry."
She wore brown dress pants and a white button down blouse, the top buttons of which, were not at all clasped, resulting in a low cut, modest enough to be overwhelming tempting. Her sleeves were somehow pushed up to her elbows, making her appear a bit disheveled.
"You look nice." He choked out the compliment.
"You're kidding right? Thanks anyway, so do you. Now, I'm starving and am in desperate need of a very stiff drink."
Erik rose slowly from the chair. "Where is this place, anyway?"
"Shem creek. And don't forget, I'm driving."
He tossed her his keys, and she missed. "Nice catch."
"Yeah, yeah."
She could have been after his money. Erik had to take that into consideration, after all, she did know of his work and what it entailed. Or maybe she just felt sorry for him, like the mongrel cat, distorted and pathetic, he certainly wasn't the first stray she'd taken in.
Women liked projects. They liked thinking they could fix things, fix people, and surely she was no different. Whatever it was she imagined lie beneath his mask was nothing compared to his true form. And when faced with the truth she would run away like all the others. Like Christine. Like his mother.
Madeleine, the spoiled whore; to call the bitch a mother was sacrilege. The scars on his back were more telling than that of his face. People were punished for mistreating dogs, but not she for beating him, for starving him…for locking him away in the attic and tying that sack around his head, tight around his neck.
She couldn't really enjoy his company. No one could. Somehow it was all a hoax, the world entertained on his behalf. God surely had a good laugh at his birth. Devil's child. Not nearly so intrepid.
A loveless, God-forsaken coward was-
A sharp pain jolted through his shin. "Stop sulking." Her voice held that icy edge he'd heard but once before. It wasn't feigned anger; it was true annoyance.
He looked up and found her dark eyes glaring at him coldly, perpetual depth, infinite voids. Eyes I dare not meet in dreams…
"Why are you so masochistic?"
He tore himself from her ever penetrating gaze. Wasn't the answer obvious enough? "Better my own hand, than to rely on the inexistent mercy of man."
She snickered and threw back a glass of wine. It was at least her third. "Have you looked around lately? It's a beautiful evening, warm, comfortable, the air smells like salt and sautéed garlic; the sky is this unbelievable pale blue and there are freakin' dolphins jumping around in the creek, right in front of us. What is there to sulk about?"
Erik sneered in response.
"Fine. Be that way. I'll give you something to sulk about you smug son of a French whore. What's her name?"
Her question startled him more than anything, initial shock quickly replaced by anger. "What, did you find that out on google too? Does she have a blog?"
"Through google, and no. I'm a lawyer; it's my job to read people. You look at me like you're comparing me to someone; quite frankly, it's unnerving. My curiosity is getting the best of me, and I can't help but wonder how I measure up. Besides that, though, it's blatantly obvious in your sixth symphony, so unlike your others, that you were madly in love with someone when you wrote it. And because I came across you hanging from a tree, I assume that things didn't work out. So what's her name?"
"What do you mean it's blatantly obvious in my sixth?" Erik hadn't thought anyone would catch the subtly uplifting nuances, much less infer the undying, at least at the time, love of the composer.
She sighed and slumped into her chair, taking a bite of her tuna and washing it down with another half glass of wine. "Why do you compose music?"
"Cathartic release."
"Right, but…the point of music is to make people understand; they hear it and connect it with their own lives. That's why you compose; that's why I play the blues; we're searching for a connection, just like our good friend J. Alfred. I've improvised off a couple of your melodies before, incomparably depressing, and people get it. That's what makes you so good. That's what makes me good."
"No one could possibly get it. Not even you, Lee. Especially you." It came out harsher than he'd intended, and wasn't entirely true. She did get it, more than anyone; maybe not the gory details but she'd certainly grasped the gist of things.
She laughed. "No, Erik, you don't get it. Come off your high horse and face the facts. You're really not that different from everyone else. Life bitch slaps us all, but right now I'm eating dinner at my favorite restaurant, drinking a very nice merlot, enjoying the beautiful weather of the Holy City, and happily basking in the company of an utterly mysterious genius with whom I can converse intelligently and who challenges me intellectually and in every other way conceivable. Instead of sulking about the fact that Monday I'm taking a case to court I can't possibly win or worrying about whether or not you'll up and disappear again, I'm just going to enjoy myself."
He processed her words slowly, watching her gulp down more wine. She didn't even seem tipsy, but they were on their third bottle, and Erik had only had two glasses.
Something she'd said rubbed him the wrong way. He'd tried to let it slide but found his rage too much to subdue. "Life bitch slaps us all? Do you think I wear this God-awful mask for my own personal amusement? Why do you think my mother beat me? Why did she leave me to die?" He chuckled maliciously. "How the hell has life bitch slapped you?"
He couldn't bring himself to look at her. It had to have been enough to make her leave, and then he could stop worrying about it; he could stop trying to predict when and how it'd all go wrong, because he knew it would.
"Yes, not exactly, because she was a French whore, and I'm not entirely sure that you're entirely sure to which 'she' you were referring, probably, sub-consciously, both your mother and the mystery, heart breaking woman. So to answer your…one, two…fourth question…because she didn't like you all that much. And is there anyone you look up to as a parental figure?"
For the second time that night she'd called his mother a French whore; he felt like he should have been more offended, but then, he pretty much always thought of Madeleine as a whore.
He realized she was waiting for him to answer her question. "Yes, Ann, she gave me a place to stay and looked after me…" Erik concluded it was most likely a bad idea to reveal himself further.
"Right, Ann, whatever, sounds nice. So, let's say you, rather idiotically, jump into a pond and get bitten by a gator; you spend the next month or so in the hospital and when you finally go home you keep having these dreams in which an alligator eats your friends and then you, and every night your grand…Ann, wakes you up from this nightmare; not only this, but Ann has raised you and loved you, and taught you every thing you know and one night he doesn't wake you up and you walk into h…her bedroom only to find her dead as a door knob on the floor. Then, would you, my pessimistic friend, consider that a bitch slap?"
Damn she could talk fast. He wasn't entirely sure how to even begin. Luckily, he didn't have to; Lee wasn't finished.
"And you know, I was engaged once. Yeah, me, not really the marrying type, huh? Two years we were engaged; and you know what? Sometimes things just don't work out, no matter how much we both wanted them to, but that's not the point. The point is, I can sit here and sulk about how traumatizing it was to find the dead body of my grandfather, or how disenchanting the end of my engagement was, or I can remember my grandfather for loving me, for the things he taught me, and my failed relationship for the good times, and enjoy this pleasant evening with remarkable company. I'm not going to beat you, and you should know by now that I won't leave you to die, whatever the hell that really means. So just enjoy your goddamn Mahi Mahi and have some more wine."
She poured another glass but drank it for herself. He was quite dumbfounded, not even Ann was bold enough to speak to him like that.
Maybe she was right. Lee was right about most things, wise beyond her years, although he suspected much of her wisdom she inherited from her grandfather
Erik actually took the time to look up at the sky.
Dusk had turned to night, stars sparkling iridescence, a lonely pale moon looking down on the peoples of the world, dark water rippling on top the backs of dolphins, and Lee, draining the bottle of wine, taking it all in with utmost respect and gratitude. It was obvious how much she loved her home.
She looked out over the water and he studied her silently, her lips curved downward, somehow softening the stern line of resolve set by her jaw. He noticed then how tired she appeared, exhausted; it was the way she'd looked when she walked into Chrissy's apartment, mere hours prior.
How she'd hidden the dark circles beneath her eyes, he'd never know, but until that moment, he hadn't noticed them at all.
Like the night before, when she'd mourned the world through an alto-saxophone, she was allowing him a rare glimpse of herself, unmarred by her usual air of confident invincibility.
And amongst her scowling lecture had been words of admiration, true compliments he'd be a fool to ignore, though ignorance did have its blissful attributes. No one else would be able to chide him in such an insightful way. He owed her a night of fun.
"Christine, her name is Christine and she ran off with a little, aristocratic twit whose only talent is that he can miraculously stick his head up his own ass. But to be fair, she was a bit lacking when it came to personality, and he does have simply immaculate hair. I'm actually quite jealous."
Lee took her gaze away from the water, a sly grin played lazily upon her lips, her eyes slightly glazed. "Can't be as immaculate as yours. See, this is what I like about you, extreme mood swings and a sense of humor. It makes for a very interesting night. I appreciate that more than you'll ever know." She laughed joyfully and finished off yet another glass.
"So what's next?"
"Let's watch The Killer Shrews."
Erik lifted his eyebrows inquisitively, but if she saw this gesture, she ignored it. He couldn't keep comparing her to Christine; more specifically, he couldn't keep attributing Christine's faults to Lee.
It occurred to him that somewhere long the way she'd decided they were truly friends. And that was more than Christine had ever given him.
Merlot made Lee happy. It made her very happy. So what if her teeth were stained purple? So what if she'd spilled wine all over her white shirt? And so what if she couldn't stop staring at the man in front of her?
None of it mattered as long as she maintained enough self-control to kick his ass in a game of pool, two could play the button game and her chest was much more distracting.
"Merde." The cue ball rolled frantically into the left corner pocket. "Could you stop leaning over the goddamn pool table like that?"
A gloved hand sub-consciously raced through his dark hair. He didn't like to lose any more than she did a fact which, to Lee, made victory so very sweet.
"Like what?" She asked innocently, watching his sensual lips suckle the bottle of Chianti. Prying herself away from the sight, she easily landed the nine ball into a side pocket. It left her with only the eight.
"You're cheating." He sounded rather childish; it made her laugh.
"How am I cheating?"
"You…you're bu…you just are." The scowl sat comfortably upon his face, a usual expression for the masked man, no doubt.
"It's not my fault you can't focus on the game."
"Fine, just wait." He stomped to her piano and practically threw himself onto the bench. Elegant, black leather fingers were brought to life, blending perfectly with the ebony and ivory keyboard.
He was good, but it wasn't enough to keep her from sinking the shot. Lee aimed carefully. "Eight ball, corner pocket." She tapped her cue on the specific corner and realigned herself.
That was when his voice hit her. Deep, powerful, husky with emotion, without a doubt the most amazing tenor she'd ever heard.
The tomb scene from Aida; short, there was no one to take up the duet, but dramatically enchanting. It only made him more attractive.
He kept playing, though his song had changed, softly he sang in French, words she was too star struck to comprehend.
Lee could wait. After all, the eight ball wasn't going anywhere, and somewhere was half a bottle of wine, waiting to be consumed.
Apollo had certainly given Erik his blessing. The hypnotic quality of his voice, raw with purity, captivated her more than she cared to admit. She had the strongest urge to kiss him. Absentmindedly, she wondered if that was how he'd felt when he'd heard her play.
Surely not. She was good, no doubt about it; Lee had seen grown men cry after hearing her play the blues, and the countless hours of practice she'd put in during her youth could not be disregarded by modesty, but she couldn't induce a lustful trance.
She was only fooling herself. He wouldn't stop until she took the shot; the real question was did she want him to stop?
The eight ball, perhaps aware of her dilemma, slid gracefully into the pocket. "Your cheap attempt to distract me has failed. You lose."
He stopped playing in order to frown at her. "You cheated."
"You've already tried that, now, as for our bet…"
"What bet? I never agreed to anything."
"Oh go to…" Suddenly Lee was flat on her ass, and she'd been walking so well. Erik's laughter clung to the air around her; even it had an alluring, musical quality. The culprit presented herself shyly, seductively sweeping Erik's legs, a lingering tail. "V.W. you little bitch. Why don't you just take that cat with you?"
He scratched the cat behind the ears. "Good girl, Virginia."
Lee rolled her eyes and stood up slowly, a sharp pain momentarily debilitating her left leg. "Shit."
She felt his eyes boring into her, as she struggled not to limp, and plopped down onto the couch. "I believe we have a movie to watch."
It was fortunate that she'd already put the DVD into the player, getting up again might have proven too much for her.
He sat down beside of her, giving her plenty of room. Lee felt like she was in middle school again, watching a movie with Timmy down the street, awkward as hell and wondering what it was like to hold hands with a boy.
She could still smell him, the seductive musk, and feel the warmth coming off of him. The heat of an impassioned lover…
She threw the thought away as quickly as it had come, though as the movie progressed her mind lingered on the mystery more and more…What would those divine lips feel like, pressed tightly against her own? And how would those slender hands feel, free from gloved prisons, roaming her skin?
Lee doubted she'd ever find out.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams... line taken completely out of context from The Hallow Men, another of Eliot's works
The Killer Shrews is about giant, man eating shrews, actually, coon hounds wearing rags, but anyway, it's great.