Chapter 5

Composing himself, his mask in place, he rose to his full height, his posture elegant. "Thank you," and a slight nod was given as he strode to the bathroom.

"Would you care for him if he were real?" the older man's words echoed back at me. I didn't doubt him now. I mean he was hideous and his features were real. No matter his story, his tale was bound to be full of woe. What did I do? I felt as if I had been torn in half, my world reset. I didn't know what to do. So I sat numb where he had left me. I looked up as he exited the bathroom. I didn't know what to say. Sorry about your face. It's a shame, really. I am sorry I was so mean. "I am sorry." I whispered, looking into his eyes as he lowered himself to the floor.

He looked uneasy as he sat down, "No one has ever…" and he petered off.

"I guess I am your first," I said softly, for a lack of words.

"It's strange. I have seen the reenactment of Christine kissing the Phantom and I have wondered what it must feel like," he spoke softly.

Surprised, my words tumbled out. "She didn't kiss you?"

He looked down and the minutes stretched onward. "No," he finally said.

"What happened?" I prodded.

"I do not want to talk about it, " he said, effectively ending the conversation.

I didn't know what else to say. Silence stretched on while I studied him. I am comfortable with silence. I reached out to take one of his hands in mine. How easily his fingers engulfed mine. He looked at our hands and a gentle smile broke upon his face. Then as if to soothe himself he began to sing. His voice was ethereal and all encompassing as it caressed my soul. I longed to bask in his voice and leave the world behind.

As the last notes echoed in the room the sounds of life came into the apartment, cars, traffic people. What do we do? What do I do with this man? Take him home. What was I thinking? I can't take him home. I..

He interrupted my thoughts, "You seem agitated," he spoke at last bringing his other hand to mine as we sat criss-cross applesauce upon the floor facing each other. He rubbed his fingers over mine and I felt less agitated.

I voiced aloud my thoughts. "I don't know what to do."

"You normally know what to do. And the unknown is frustrating to you."

How did he know? I looked up past his lips to his eyes. "Perhaps you are right," I said in reference to my confusion. "How can you be so calm?"

"My anger hurt many people, ... and a woman I cared deeply for," his voice trailed off.

I did not doubt I knew what woman he was referring to. What happened to her? Who was the real Christine? Their bond was so strong to keep him here, tethered to this world. Yet here he was in a sort of purgatory. Forced to hear his failing and watch it on stage night after night for 36 years. How horrible? I listen to the soundtrack daily, but that was just it, it was a soundtrack, a grand romance gone wrong. I felt the pain and anguish the actors put into the role but this was his life.

Who was this man? He rose then and stretched his fingers to mine. I took his offered hand as it grasped mine. The contact sent a chill through me. Why, when I had held his hands before. I stood up, running my hands down the side of my dress, smoothing it.

"Tea?" I asked and he nodded. I needed space to think.

I crossed the studio to the small stove, my eyes never leaving his form. Was I hallucinating? He was real and I was starting to believe. I turned from him to fill the kettle from the faucet. Then I set it on the electric burner. I had some soy milk which I pulled from the fridge and set up on the counter. I opened the cupboards searching for sugar only to spy it on a top shelf.

I began to pull myself up on the counter and then I felt a presence nearby and I gave a startled cry, nearly falling.

"Be still," he commanded and he slowly set me up on my feet, sliding me down his body. I was taken off guard and I merely nodded as he easily reached up for the tea box.

I shook my head. I needed to stop staring. It was rude. I grabbed two mugs from the I love NYC collection, a Broadway and subway cup. "May I?" and he gestured to the tea. I nodded, unsure what to make of him. Now that he was making the tea I had little else to distract me from him. He looked about my age, maybe a few years older. It was hard to tell with his damaged face. His eyes were glossy bringing to mind the lyric, "held the sadness of the world." He still looked tired but he had taken on a gentlemanly air as he steeped our tea. We both abstained from the sugar. He tidied, cleaned up breakfast, and the other, while the tea steeped. He wiped the table down.

The fingers of his hands were long, pianist's hands as he handed me a cup of tea. I wondered how many octaves he could span. "Do you play piano?" I wondered aloud after accepting the cup.

"Yes, but I am more a custom to the organ, or I once was. I haven't played an organ in some years," he replied. Of course he was. Then he took his seat at the end of the couch, opposite me.

He was studying me and I felt like a specimen under a microscope. Then I realized I was probably doing the same to him and I redden in embarrassment.

"Why do you like the show?" he asked.

Why did this feel so personal and I felt so self conscious? I looked down to see I had bunched up the skirt of my dress. I forced my fingers to relax and smooth the fabric. Why did this feel so real? I felt his gaze upon me as if my answer were important.

"I …, you, I mean the show, it was my escape when I needed it. I felt his pain."

I suddenly felt so self conscious, as if I was chatting with the real Phantom and my real feelings for him.

He was quiet for a bit, lost in his own thoughts. Then I heard him whisper so softly, it came out as a breath, "Perhaps he was right."

xxx

All the feels. Hugs.