Perfect

Christine stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself. Since they'd labeled it as such, this was their first official "date". She'd spent two hours on this snazzy 'look' and was feeling pretty pleased with herself. Her normally frizzy hair was full of 'product', smooth as glass, and pinned in a French braid with little curls escaping at the sides. . She had washed with a perfumed soap, spritzed with a light body spray, and smelled delicious to herself. She'd applied a rose shaded lip balm, a light brush of rouge, and even some mascara and eyeliner. She was wearing a fitted lavender blouse and a full black skirt that complimented her figure – the last time she'd worn this outfit was when Meg muscled her into performing for her boyfriend's family. Sensibly low-heeled black Maryjane shoes completed the look. As she left the apartment she realized that she was wearing no jewelry. Crud, she thought. But it was too late to go back; she didn't want to risk missing her bus.

As Christine stood outside the door to Erik's apartment, checking her makeup one last time, one of Erik's neighbors came out of her apartment to get her newspaper. When the older lady spotted Christine about to knock on Erik's door, she looked alarmed.

"Oh, honey, whatever you're selling, he doesn't want any. Save yourself some trouble and just leave that one alone." The woman's voice sounded friendly.

"I'm sorry?" It was startling to be accosted by a stranger trying to warn her away from her friend.

"That man is one of the strangest, surliest people I've ever seen move into this building, and I've been here since it was put up. If you knock on his door, don't expect a warm welcome. The only people he answers the door to are deliverymen. He almost never leaves."

"I think he'll see me..." Christine knocked on the door, amused by the chagrin on the woman's face.

After a moment, the door opened. Erik's eyes swept her from head to toe and a smile bloomed on his face. She blushed and looked down – straight into the bouquet of roses and baby's breath he pressed into her hand. She inhaled the sweet aroma and looked up to Erik, her eyes shining.

"Oh Erik...they're gorgeous. Thank you!" She cut her eyes to the right, taking in the amazed expression on the old woman's face with satisfaction. She smiled sweetly and allowed Erik to escort her into his apartment. It was softly lit by numerous candles, Vivaldi's Four Seasons played sweetly from a surround-sound system, and a mouth-watering smell permeated the air. Erik stood quietly to one side, taking in her reaction. He had not spoken a word; he was too nervous. He hoped it lent an air of romance, or mystery, or whatever attracted women to men.

"You look wonderful tonight." The compliment was sincere. Erik was wearing black dress pants with a burgundy silk shirt that nicely hid his terrible thinness.

He kicked himself. He should have complimented her first, at the door. "You are a vision."

He followed her as she walked past him into the kitchen, searching for something.

"What do you need?"

"A vase? These will wilt if we don't put them in water, and I'd like to take them home with me."

Erik pulled a wine carafe from a shelf, filled it with water and watched as she carefully arranged the flowers in it.

"I have to ask: What is that wonderful smell?"

"Our lunch. Let it be a surprise. It'll be done in another 15 minutes." He felt awkward, standing there with her in his kitchen. "Would you like to see the music room while we wait?"

"Sure."

Christine was suitably impressed with the array of instruments. She went from one to the next, touching them, asking the stories behind each, testing their tone and tuning.

"They're all in tune. How do you manage that?"

"I spend a lot of time in here."

"That's what the old lady in the hall said." Christine remarked offhandedly. "You don't seem to have made yourself very popular with your neighbors."

"I told you I don't get on with people very well." He lifted the mandolin and played a snatch of an Irish folksong. "Mary pokes her nose where it doesn't belong with amazing regularity."

"And I repeat: you seem to 'get on' with me just fine."

Erik stared studiously at the inlays on the cello. "And I repeat: you are different from anyone I've ever known. Thank goodness for that." He thrust the cello into her hands, drawing her attention away from touchy subjects. "Here. Test this out and see how you like its sound. It has a completely different personality from yours. I'm going to see how lunch is coming along."

Christine played the exquisitely crafted instrument until Erik called out that lunch was served. She put down the beautiful bow reluctantly. Though her cello was dear to her heart, it was nowhere close to this piece of art in quality. Erik had somehow amassed a collection of instruments that would be the envy of any professional orchestra.

"I hope you enjoy this. It's the first time I've tried the recipe. It looked too good not to give it a shot." Erik pulled out her chair, poured a serving of wine into her glass and waited until she was comfortable before taking his own seat.

Christine took the first bite and closed her eyes. Let's add gourmet chef to the list of Amazing Things Erik Can Do. She chewed slowly, in culinary ecstasy. "Erik, you are incredible. I can make a great grilled cheese, but that about covers the extent of my cooking skills."

"I'm glad you like it." Inwardly, Erik was utterly unimpressed with his ability to entertain his guest. What had happened to the witty repartee that flowed effortlessly over the microphone? "So. Have I done well? Flowers? Music? Candles?"

Christine laughed; the bell-like sound was absorbed quickly by the soundproofing. "Oh my. Is that why you've been so quiet? You're worried that I might not like what you've done here? Erik... everything is wonderful...perfect. I've never had a man go through this much trouble to make me happy. And you have. Made me happy, that is."

Erik relaxed visibly. The tension fell out of his shoulders and his posture lost its rigidity. "I was worried. I didn't know if it would please you. You know, I've never really known what to think of Vivaldi. Some of his work moves me deeply, but much of it strikes me as too treacly-sweet. It's almost as though he were reaching for the emotion he thought his audience expected and abandoned authentic feeling."

"I don't mind a little sweetness, sometimes. But you're right. His music does reach. It's like a lot of modern artists, I think. You have to listen to the B-sides of their albums to find the good stuff."

From there, the conversation flowed as lightly and easily as it normally did during their online conversations. They talked about all the composers they could think of who seemed to reach for and miss the mark emotionally with their music. From there, they discussed the formulaic essence of Motown and agreed that despite that, they both loved Motown.

When lunch was done, Christine popped up from the table and ran to her purse. "I brought something that I thought might be fun tonight." Christine pulled out the CD she had grabbed as a last second thought on her way out the door. She passed it to Erik, who scanned the title dubiously.

"Strauss's waltzes?"

"Yes." Christine was biting her lip and toeing the ground lightly. "I thought it might be nice to dance a bit. The only dance I know is the waltz."

"I can't dance at all." And a pity, too. He imagined holding her close, moving smoothly around the room...

"Oh! It's easy. Let me teach you. It's only fair. Please?"

There was no way Erik could say no. He took the CD and started it. The Beautiful Blue Danube filled the apartment with its dulcet tones. Christine stood close to Erik and took his hands.

"Now, you put one of your hands here. Your other hand holds mine up here. It's always going to be in three-quarter time. Let's start with the most basic step. We move in a box-pattern. Traditionally you're supposed to lead, but since I'm teaching, I'll lead at first." Patiently, Christine taught Erik the basics of waltzing, while he admired the way the candlelight sparkled in her clear hazel eyes and the softness of her hand in his. By the time the Emperor Waltz ended, Erik was moving with ease. Christine relaxed and let him lead, enjoying his strength and the fluidity of each movement. Her mental list grew. Singing...Stringed instruments...Cooking...Dancing... She sighed happily and moved closer to him, breaking her 'dance space'.

Erik felt her body slide against his and drew in a slow, deep breath. He slid his hand along her arm to her shoulder blade, reveling in her soft skin. She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his chest, immersing herself in the warm safety of his embrace. Their movement lost its pattern and became a slow rhythmic swaying. It was hypnotic for Erik; he was lost in her touch, her nearness, her trust. In that gentle trance, he remembered something.

"You said you might have something to tell me tonight. Do you remember what it was?"

She nodded against his chest, reluctant to speak. This moment was perfect; she had little inclination to ruin it. Erik waited several seconds before he realized that she was not going to answer further.

"What was it?"

"I wanted to see how tonight felt, first. And I suppose it's more of a question than something I want to tell you..." Christine stopped their slow side-to-side motion and met his eyes. Their usual hard gleam was gone, in its place was the same soft expression he wore when he played his violin.

"Ask me."

"If I were to try to kiss you, would you let me?"

If the ceiling had suddenly fallen in on his head, Erik could not have been more stunned. His mouth began making words without help from his brain. "You...a kiss...I...here?" he stammered. She was nodding, beginning to look abashed. He wrenched back control of his mouth and said, "You don't want to kiss me, Christine." Nadir's words came back to him, too late. 'It's dangerous to tell a woman how she feels…' He scuttled to backtrack." Do you?"

Christine's brow furrowed stubbornly. "Actually, yes, I do."

Almost, almost, Erik gave in. "But...you don't know what you'd be kissing. So, no, I wouldn't let you."

"Only because of that?" Christine gestured at his mask. "Not because you...don't want to?"

"Christine, I'd love to kiss you, but it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair to you."

"What feels unfair is that you won't. Your stupid mask is the only thing between us and..." Christine literally bit her tongue. She knew she'd gone too far, but that seemed to be the status quo in this relationship.

Instead of becoming angry, as she expected, Erik took her hands gently in his. Apprehension and hope mixed in his eyes. "Between us and what, Christine?"

"Tonight? Between us and a kiss. Between you and me. What happened to your face, Erik? Were you born that way? Were you burned?" As she asked, she pulled his hands back around her waist and slipped her arms around his.

This was the moment Nadir had been talking about. Christine was asking him for the truth. The perfect opportunity had arrived, if only he could make himself answer her. He drew her closer and began swaying to the music again, trying to find that comfortable, hypnotic place. She didn't pull away or resist, and after a while, he found the courage to speak.

"When I was a baby they performed a minor operation to correct a little problem with my sinuses. There was an infection that damaged the skin. When they tried to correct that damage, my body rejected the skin graft. I guess that was where everything started."

"Started?"

"Yes. They tried over and over again to fix the damage, but every time they tried, they just made it worse. By the time they gave up..."

"How many times did they...try?" That was a gentler version of what Christine truly wanted to ask, which was, 'How many times did they cut you, Erik?'

"I don't even remember anymore. More than twenty, less than a hundred? I was sixteen when they stopped. By the time they gave up, there was hardly anything left." This was going so much more smoothly than he'd imagined. She was still near, still holding him. She didn't look repulsed – not yet, at least. Nadir told him to tell her the truth. "They damaged the nerves and the bone, so anything more than a light touch hurts. But a very light touch doesn't hurt at all."

"Does...it hurt at other times?"

"Sometimes. It comes and goes. It's nothing I can't handle."

The music stopped, silence descended, but they continued in their slow dance.

"I can't imagine always having to wear a mask. It must be..." she trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

"Like you said earlier, it's always between me and, well, everything...everyone. I get a lot of stares and whispers when I go out. So, I just don't go out."

"It sounds lonely," she whispered.

"It was lonely."

Christine did not miss the importance of the word "was". Her arms tightened around him protectively. She felt him take a deep breath and become tense.

"Do you want to see? I'll warn you ahead of time that I am not being melodramatic when I say that it's monstrous. I can't stand to look at myself. It really is horrible. But if you want to see, I'll let you."

This was the moment they'd both dreaded. For Erik, it was the moment of love or loss. For Christine, it was the test of the love she thought she felt for this man.

"Why would you let me see?" Her voice was as tense as his body. She could not speak louder than a whisper. "Not just to appease my curiosity, I hope..."

"No. You told me to trust you, do you remember that? I think I do, now. I think I can."

"Will it frighten me?" The question felt cruel to ask, but she had to know what he thought. "What do you think will happen if I see?"

"I think it will frighten you. If you'd asked me this morning, before you arrived, I would have said that you'd scream, run from me, and never look back." Tell her the truth...tell her the truth... "But now...I think you may be frightened, but you might not run."

"If I am frightened by your face it will hurt your feelings," she stated flatly.

"Of course." He sighed. "But if you just didn't run...that alone would be a sort of magic."

"I'm already frightened," she admitted. "but I'm still here. Maybe if you tell me more… What does it look like?"

Erik tried to think how best to describe the mess under the mask to her. "It's...ok...the skin is really all that's left in some places, stretched tight over the bone. In other places you can...this is really hard to say." His voice was caught in his throat; adrenaline coursed through his veins, making him shake. He forced himself to continue against the choking anxiety. "In some places, you can see the muscles, the veins. I don't...there isn't really a nose. It's bad, Christine, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She just nodded. "Do you want me to see you?"

"No. Yes. Both." He stopped, regrouped and tried to explain. "No, I don't want to lose the only...friend...I have. Yes, I want you to know. I'm dumb enough to hope that you might..." care for me anyway "...not run."

"I can't run if I'm sitting down." Christine pulled out of his grasp and took a seat on the edge of his computer chair.

"Are you sure about this?"

"No, but I'm as sure as I think I can be. What was your line? 'Before I lose my courage.'"

Erik came and knelt in front of her. He reached back to undo the ties, but her hands stopped his.

"Let me, please. I'll be very gentle." She hoped that having some control over the situation might ease her reaction.

"Together?"

"Together." she murmured. "Don't let me hurt you."

"You will, but it's ok."

Christine untied the strings of his mask, then took the edges lightly in her fingers and slowly lowered it. He'd told her the truth – every detail. Her numb fingers dropped the light leather, but his were there to catch it. He forced himself to wait through her shock without covering himself.

Her hand rose to her mouth, muffling her voice. "Oh my god." Christine shut her eyes, squeezed them closed, then opened them again, bit by bit. Her stomach lurched, making her gag. His face reminded her of nothing so much as a desiccated corpse: scraped raw, devoid of softness, and withered

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. So sorry." He couldn't stop apologizing for the face that wasn't his fault.

She stood slowly and deliberately and stepped away from him on legs that did not really want to support her weight. "I'm...going to the bathroom. When I come back..."

"I'll have the mask on. I promise."

"No. No. Don't. Have your violin out. And...be ready." As quickly as was possible on her treacherous legs, Christine hurried to the restroom leaving a very confused man kneeling in the agony of suspense on the floor behind her.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, Christine bent her head over the toilet, waiting for the nausea to pass. She willed herself not to throw up; the battle lasted several minutes. Once she was convinced that she'd won, Christine moved to the sink and splashed cold water on her face, not caring that it ruined her makeup. She had to go back in there and face him, and she must not run. Frantic thoughts crowded her mind. Think of his music. Think of his cooking. Think of his dancing. That's still Erik in there. It's still him. I can handle this. I have to handle this. She held these thoughts as she walked back into the living room. She saw that he was sitting in the computer chair, facing the wall, holding his violin. She opened her flute case and assembled the myriad little pieces, trying to find a steady pace to calm her fluttering heart.

Erik heard her come back to the room. He listened as she put her flute together. Moments later, her soft hand touched his hair, smoothing it. Tears flooded his eyes and threatened to escape. She hadn't run. She was touching him.

"Play something for me," she said, and though her voice trembled, she sounded sure. "Turn around, please. I need to see you play. I'll accompany you. It will help."

He turned, his violin already under his chin, the bow already on the strings. Erik closed his eyes to avoid seeing her expression and felt the tears roll down his face. Letting her see him cry seemed a mere trifle now. He was playing the piece she'd written for him; she played his counterpoint. As it always did, the music changed him. Christine could make herself look at him again; it was still painful to see his face, but at least there was no more nausea. When the music ended, she set her flute on the computer table and waited for whatever came next. Setting his violin aside, Erik reached out for her blindly, not knowing what he expected her to do. His hand met hers. She took it and came to him, kneeling as he had knelt before.

"You can open your eyes now."

He opened his eyes and forced their gaze to meet hers. She looked frightened. Her face was dead-white. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She was still here, though. Her hand was in his.

Wryly, he asked, "Do you still want that kiss?"

To his –and her – unending surprise, Christine closed her eyes and said, "Yes."

The kiss was a tiny thing, only a dry peck on the lips, but it thundered through both of them, shaking them to the core.