Of Lattes and Loneliness

Meg watched Christine thrust the overfilled mug of hot chocolate at an annoyed customer.

"Miss, I said I wanted whipped cream on that."

Christine gave the woman a blank stare. Listlessly, she picked up the can of whipped cream, pressed the nozzle, and heaped the mug to overflowing with mounds of the fluffy white stuff.

"Cinnamon? Nutmeg?" she asked, brandishing the spice-shakers like weapons.

After the startled customer backed away clutching her sloppy mug, Meg grabbed Christine by the upper arm and dragged her away for a 'kitchen chat'.

"You are going to get fired if you keep that up." Meg stepped back and critically examined her friend. "Is it possible that you got even less sleep last night? And you're about ready to put cyanide in the sugar shaker. What's wrong, Miss Chris?"

"Nothing, Meg. Really. It's stupid." She sighed. There was a customer at the counter. While Meg took the man's order, Christine tried to put her thoughts together. She was in a dreadful mood after a night of thin and restless sleep; she'd even considered calling in sick to avoid having to deal with customers today. Meg came back, leaning against the wall expectantly. There would be only an demanding glare until the goods were given up.

"It's just that…" Christine chewed her lower lips a little bit. She was in for an 'I told you so' of gigantic proportions, but it was well-deserved. "You know how you suggested I get a webcam and microphone?"

"Uh-huh…"

"Well, I did. But when I suggested it to the guy, he totally freaked out on me. He said he thought I wasn't like the 'other camwhores', and then he just logged out." Christine shrugged. "It shouldn't even matter. He's just a guy on the 'net, right?"

"Uh-huh…"

"But it's really bugging me. He seemed so genuine! And…I miss talking to him. I've only missed one, single conversation with him, and just look at me - I'm a mess. I guess I'm just lonely for masculine company." Christine pushed her hands into the pocket on her apron, bracing for the inevitable. "Go ahead, Meg. Say it."

"It's ok, sweetie. Just don't let Bess see you threatening the customers with the cinnamon. She'd have you out of here so fast your head would spin." Truthfully, Meg wanted to grab and shake her gullible friend. The girl lived in a fantasy world of music and fairy-tales. But Christine looked so bummed, she didn't have the heart to scold her.

"Thanks, Meg. Really. I swear that when I go home today I am not even turning the computer on. I am going to practice my flute until my lips cramp, and then I am going to sleep for a million years."

"Good girl. Now go churn out some high-quality Jamaican brew!" Meg swung a pretend smack at Christine's retreating fanny.

Feeling somewhat cheered by Meg's unusual forbearance, Christine finished the day without incident. There was a used CD store on her walk home. To complete her personal feel-better routine, Christine stopped and browsed through some of the newer material. She was feeling dark and angry – but it had to be cello music. Half an hour later she left the shop with an Apocalyptica CD shoved deep into her oversized purse.

Once home, she locked the door behind her and picked up the flute. She spun it in her fingers like a baton before putting it to her lips. In her tiny apartment, the only place for her music rack was the living room, right next to the computer desk. Repeatedly, she started to play, trying to make Stravinsky's music flow appropriately smooth and sensual. Repeatedly, she trailed off, staring at her reflection in the black screen. The flute sparkled mockingly at her. Absently, she wondered what AngelofMusic thought of Stravinsky's Nightingale. No matter how she tried, every other thought was AngelofMusic, and she could not string three measures together without distraction.

Fine, she grumbled to herself. I'll just log in for a moment. Just one minute – no more! – and see if he has responded.

Trillian was slow loading; Christine tapped her nails loudly on the particle board of her cheap computer desk. AngelofMusic was not signed in. Damn! Then she noticed that the Offline Messages window had popped up. Christine clicked on it eagerly.

AngelofMusic: There is something I would like to share with you, Little Latte. I won't use a webcam, but my microphone should arrive in two days. I assume you will be onat your usual time. Oh, and please have something ready to "share", if that is truly your motivation.

The message was curt, and his last line was nothing less than acerbic. There was no apology or even the barest explanation for his outlandish behavior the day before. She had to admit that her own message to him had been a bit challenging as well. He'd answered the challenge, and now she was ruefully considering her options. This would be the first time he heard her voice, her music. What would she say? What could she possibly play that would make a good impression and represent her as a whole person?

When they first met, he'd been defending Matt Haimovitz's work. She'd gone on to fall in love with the cellist's adaptation of The Immigrant Song. She adapted it, practiced it endlessly until she tore the calluses from her fingers and built new ones. Over time it had become her own. That would be her performance piece. Several weeks had passed since last she played it; it needed a brush-up and a polish-off. Before there was time to think rationally about what she was doing, the phone was in her hands and she heard her voice pitch itself low and scratchy.

"Uh..(cough, cough) Bess? I feel awful. (cough, cough) I don't think I can make it in tomorrow…"

For his part, Erik paced distractedly around his two-bedroom apartment. The microphone had been delivered that morning. The delivery required a signature. The deliveryman had gawked openly at Erik as he signed the receipt and yanked the package from the man's cigarette-stained hands. It was not every day that one delivered a package to a man wearing a leather mask covering the top two-thirds of his face. Longish, shaggy black hair hung forward in a thick fringe, further obscuring his features.

Stupidly, the delivery man ignored his recipient's glower and jerked a thumb towards the mask. "Is that some kind of kinky thing? My sister had a guy who was into that...kind...of" He stumbled over his words as long, thin, pale fingers grasped the collar of his tan work shirt. "Jesus, man. I ain't into that shit!"

"Leave." The one word was spoken in a tone so deep and threatening that there was no question of the speaker's intent. Erik shoved the man backward into the hall of the apartment building and slammed the door. Ignorant Neanderthals like that were part of the reason he never left his apartment anymore. He wanted to punch those staring eyes until they swelled shut, but that would lead to jail. He did not need to go back to that place. Ever.

Erik opened the box and looked at the simple microphone set-up. According to his research, this microphone was the best available. For what he paid, it should have excellent sound reproduction. The advertising claimed it could filter extraneous noise. She would be able to hear the rich, dark tones of his precious violin. Someone who loved music, someone other than Nadir and his father, would finally hear him play. He hoped she would fall completely in love with the music.

But there's something else you hope for, isn't there, Erik? A quiet voice from the deep well of his subconscious rose to tease him. There's more you want. As brutally as he shoved the delivery guy in to the hall, Erik shoved these thoughts back into oblivion where they belonged.

He'd spent the last twenty-four hours alternately resting and practicing. There would be only one first chance to impress her, to make her hear him. He wanted each note to burn her with beauty; he wanted each word to sink into her mind indelibly. For years, he'd considered himself a thing apart from – and above - the rest of humanity. Apart and above was the safest place. Like the song said, he touched no one, and no one touched him.

This girl had almost convinced him that he might consider rejoining the species, at least enough to talk to her.

Unlike Christine, who felt more anxious as the appointed time approached, Erik felt only a growing sense of self-confidence. All these months, he'd paid very careful attention to Christine. He'd invited her to talk effusively, drawn her out with little comments and questions that revealed nothing of himself. He'd come to know her hopes and dreams, her triumphs and failures. He'd quietly sympathized with her when she dumped her boyfriend, though he was secretly glad; the less time she spent with that non-musical oaf, the more time she'd have for him – not that he was interested in her that way.

Of course, he was not interested in her that way. It would be weakness on his part. And foolishness. But those conversations when he drew her out had showed him a wonderful, complex person; a person he respected. Now, as he installed the mic and checked its function, he thought back on a snippet of one conversation when her poesy had been running high.

AngelofMusic: Cello and flute. Very different instruments. How did you come to choose them?

minorchord: Dark and light, dangerous and romantic, strings and wind, yang and yin. Not to get

too deep into it, but I like to be able to touch both sides.

AngelofMusic: I know what you mean. No instrument is limited to one dimension, but some

definitely appeal to some emotions better than others.

minorchord: Yeah. The cello has something dangerous about it, you know? It's got power. But

it can still have a gentle wistful sound. And the flute seems all sweetness and light,

but if you play it right, it can haunt the listener for days.

He had chosen his piece based on that conversation. Haunting and sweet, powerful and light. Ralph Vaughan Williams' "The Lark Ascending" was all that, and achingly beautiful as well. That piece of music and his voice were the tools he would use to draw her in. He would wrap her in sound so that she would forget about sight.

What if she still wants to see me? The thought was unnerving. What if hearing me makes her want it even more? Now, there was nervousness under his confidence. She must never see him.

He logged in at a quarter until four to find that she was not online yet. Excellent. This gave him a moment to prepare. His violin lay in his lap as he rosined the bow. He knew it was in tune. He knew the sound would be perfect. The clock refused to allow time to move forward. Ten 'til four. Eight 'til four. Three minutes 'til four.

Three minutes after four. Where was she? He tapped his foot impatiently and hummed a few scales. Ten minutes after four. He'd begun to think she was not going to appear.

It's not as important to her as it is to you, stupid. She has friends, a job, a life.

He decided that he would give her five more minutes. Five more minutes, and then he'd give up on her. As cold as he tried to be, as much as he wanted to believe that he could do without other people, Erik desperately hoped she would not disappoint him.

Christine was late because she was terrified. He didn't intend to use a webcam, but since she had one, she did. She'd spent an hour in front of the mirror, trying to decide how she should look. AngelofMusic did not strike her as the sort of man who cared much for make-up or fancy clothes, but she still worried about her frizzy hair, her freckles, and the few extra pounds on her hips, waist and chest. What if he thought she was ugly? She'd beaten her hair into submission with anti-frizz glosser and a round hairbrush. She'd spread a little powder over her face to camouflage the freckles. There was nothing to hide the fact that she was plump. What if he thought she was fat?

The cello was next to her on its stand and the music was in her head – she needed no sheet music for this piece. The microphone was set at the perfect angle to pick up her voice; she would have to readjust it before she began to play. The camera was attached to the computer monitor. She stared at it with trepidation. What if he thinks I'm ugly? The nasty little thought would not leave her. She was not worried he would not like her performance; she was fire on the cello, and she knew it. She was only afraid that he would take one look at her and lose interest.

The webcam was my idea. What a stupid idea! "Stupid, stupid!" she chided herself.

Her computer proclaimed the time to be twelve past four. AngelofMusic normally logged on at four. He would have been expecting her since then. Summoning her courage, Christine leaned forward and signed in. She turned on the camera and stared into its dark eye. Until he opened the window for a webcam session, he would not see her. She made horrible faces at it to relieve some tension.

AngelofMusic: I was beginning to think you weren't coming.

minorchord: I almost didn't, to be honest.

AngelofMusic: You are angry with me?

minorchord: No. That's not it.

AngelofMusic: What is "it" then?

Christine sighed. She'd never felt the need to lie to him before. For months she'd told him everything she thought or felt without reservation. Now, though, it was about him and that made it different. "Why break a good habit?" she muttered.

AngelofMusic: Are you still there?

minorchord: It's that I am a little nervous.

AngelofMusic: Why would you be nervous? This was your idea.

minorchord: I know, I know. No need to rub it in. Look, it's really silly. Let's turn on voice chat

and get going. I've got my cello here, all tuned and ready.

AngelofMusic: Not so fast, Little Latte. I want to know – why are you nervous?

minorchord: I've got the webcam on, because I said I would.. If you click to open the webcam

session window, you'll see me. I'm nervous because, well, what if you don't like

how I look? I'm not pretty.

It was Christine's turn to wait for a response. Erik was dumbfounded. She was worried about what he would think of her appearance? He found himself laughing; an action so rare he startled himself. The irony was delicious. He clicked on the window to open the webcam session. She was sitting, staring at her screen, anxiety evident in her face. She looked to be about twenty-five, a decade younger than he was, or more. He found her round face, sharp green eyes, and full red lips adorable. minorchord was right: she wasn't pretty by modern standards, though she was far from unattractive. Erik's normally flat, cold expression softened.

minorchord: If my looks are going to be an issue, then we may as well not even do this.

AngelofMusic: I've turned on the webcam. I can see you, though the resolution leaves something

to be desired. Your looks are not going to be an issue, I promise. Now, I agree

with you. "Let's turn on voice chat and get going. I've got my violin here, all tuned

and ready."

Christine took a deep breath and clicked the fatal button. How should she interpret his message? He was looking at her, he knew she was nervous about his opinion of her, and yet he'd offered no clue as to what that opinion was. Normally, she hated placating answers like, "Of course you're pretty, every woman is beautiful!" or the eternally-despised, "Men like a little something to hold on to." But this total neutrality, this lack of response was far worse. She was beginning to sweat over it, when his voice came through her speakers and shook her world.

"Can you hear me?" was all he had said, but the words raised goosebumps on her skin. His voice was deep, rich, full, powerful, masculine, smooth…

"Yuh…yes." she stopped, cleared her throat, steadied the palsy of her nerves, and tried again. "Yes. You are coming through loud and clear. Can you hear me?"

Erik smiled. She sounded exactly as he imagined. Her voice was clear and sweet. He had not missed the false start or its implications. On the camera, her face was a blank O of wonder. Excellent. The years of work spent perfecting his voice were paid in full in this moment.

"I can hear you as well. Wonderful. Now, I suppose we should introduce ourselves properly. I am Erik." he smiled to himself, taking delight in her expression as she tried to pull her thoughts together enough to answer.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Erik." Christine smiled into the camera. His voice was relaxing her, easing the tension of the last week. "I am Christine."

There was a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. Erik could see the scroll and fingerboard of her cello. "Well, Mademoiselle Christine, what will we be hearing from you today?"

"Wait, wait! Who said I was going first?"

Erik laughed for a record breaking second time. The sound carried clearly and Christine felt her heart melt. She tried to keep her face from showing how something as simple as his laugh affected her…and failed miserably as red tinged her cheeks.

"Go ahead, Little Latte. Play for me before you blush any brighter."

Her blush deepened to crimson. She didn't trust her voice at all, so she simply slid her chair back and pulled her cello to rest against her thigh. Her nervousness and embarrassment floated away into the music, as did her awareness that he was listening, or that there was an outside world at all. There was passion in this piece and she played with controlled ferocity. Her hair defied her attempts at control and fell over her eyes. She broke a sweat on her brow. The bow flew over the strings faultlessly.

Erik leaned towards his screen and touched the blurry image of her face. He recognized the look in her eyes: it was the same he would wear in his own minutes from now. She was gone into the music. No, Christine wasn't pretty. He stared at the passionate expression that even the pathetic resolution of her webcam could not obscure. She wasn't pretty, but while she played her music, she was beautiful.