Moving In; Moving On

Many of Christine's belongings were superfluous and found their way onto a Goodwill truck. Erik already had a computer, dishes, cookware, a microwave, and a bed. Neither of them had any intention of rearranging the music room – other than to make space for Christine's cello, flute, and waist-high collection of scores. They simply squeezed her dresser next to his and packed the remainder of her wardrobe into his closet. After she'd weeded out all the clothes that no longer fit, this was not much of a challenge.

There were some intense discussions regarding the apartment's decorating scheme. Christine had many things she wanted to add to make the place feel a little more "livable." Unfortunately for Erik, she would change something, smile her cherubic smile and then say, "But it's much nicer now, don't you think?" He could say little against the power of that smile. Besides, some of the little touches she added really did make the place more comfortable; new sheets and bedding, art prints, and a few throw pillows were just fine. After winning these concessions, she was willing to surrender to his black curtains and matching ebony furniture.

At the end of a very long day, Christine draped herself over Erik where he sat similarly limply on the comfortable couch. "Oh my God, Erik. I can't do any more. Let's go to bed."

He looked over at her and nodded. She took his hand and dragged him to his feet.

"Come on then. I've got dibs on the bathroom, though."

"This is real," he murmured as she towed him to the bedroom.

"Very real. I've been told I don't snore." She contemplated his lack of a nose. "Do you?"

"I…I don't know." Erik took both her hands, stopping her just outside the bathroom door. "I do have to, um, take care of this." He waved towards his face. "Will that bother you?"

Christine shook her head. "Does it take a long time?"

"A few minutes. There's a cream. And I have to use the unit." He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I just wanted to let you know I can go in another room if it's off-putting for you."

"Don't be silly. I'll be slathering myself in creams, too. I don't even have a good excuse." She backed into the bathroom and handed his paraphernalia out to him.

Erik took care of his face, then waited for her to emerge. Thirty minutes later she and a perfumed cloud of steam came rolling into the bedroom. She wore a short nightgown that he found far more fetching than his t-shirt. He was contemplating her shape when he realized she was climbing into bed. His bed. Their bed? She snuggled into her pillow and looked up at him.

"You coming?" she inquired innocently.

He blinked and repeated quietly, "This is real."

Sliding into bed next to her felt simultaneously intrusive and enticing. She waited until he seemed mostly settled before she cuddled up to his side.

"This is real," she confirmed, leaning over and kissing him thoroughly.

"I was tired," he mused, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her softness closer.

"And now?" she ran her fingers through his hair, sending tingles down his spine.

"And now, I'm not." He switched off the light.

His first, she thought, as she slid her nightgown over her head. I'm his first.

Just as in dancing, she led at first. He followed gently, exploring everything she offered with a frank tenderness that delighted her as much as it teased her. In the darkness there were no faces, no fears. In the dark it was clear as day that they were two lines of the same song.

They settled into life together as comfortably as if they'd never lived apart. It was natural to wake up together, natural to share meals and conversation, and better than natural to practice music together day in and day out and fall into bed together every night.

Two weeks after the big move, Christine received a call from Lawrence Conservatory. Dr. Corringer was very apologetic, but "I'm sorry Christine. The Board has decided that they cannot accept your original work as your performance piece. Though we all agree the composition and execution are of superb caliber, they ask me to remind you that interpretation is an essential piece of the grading rubric. It's hardly fair to other students to allow you to 'interpret' your own work."

"No, I guess it's not. I understand, Dr Corringer." Christine tried not to sound crestfallen, but her heart was in her shoes.

"But Christine, you are listed as a special guest. I don't think anyone would be averse to an encore performance. I'd encourage you to come prepared to play your work. It truly is performance worthy. Who is your accompanist?" The Board had debated for nearly an hour on who the unknown violinist might be. Many world-famous names were raised and rejected in turn.

A long pause followed the question. "He's my boyfriend."

"Ah. Well. He is an amazing musician in his own right. We look forward to meeting him." Dr. Corringer waited for a response. When there was none, he continued. "Do you have an alternate piece?"

"Yes, sir. I'll play Bach's Gigue in D minor. Do you think that will be acceptable?"

"I believe it will. We will be honored to have such an accomplished musician playing for us. Until then, Miss Daae."

"Have a good afternoon, Dr. Corringer."

She hung up and stared at her phone for a few minutes.

"What was that, Christine?" Erik was sitting nearby, working. "Did I hear you say 'boyfriend'?"

"They say I can't play my piece for the graded performance, because it wouldn't be fair to the other students – we get graded on interpretation." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "And yes, they wanted to know who my accompanist on the tape was. I didn't give them your name."

"You won't have me as an accompanist at the school. And not letting you play your piece... That's ridiculous! The piece is..."

Christine ignored that he was declining to accompany her at the Conservatory. "It's fair, Erik. I would have an unfair advantage interpreting my own work. Dr. Corringer encouraged me to be ready to perform my composition as an encore."

Erik tried to smooth his ruffled feathers. If Christine wasn't upset over this, then neither would he be. "So. You chose the Gigue?"

"It's a beautiful piece. With only about a month to go, I don't want to pick anything I don't already know."

"True."

"And with only about a month to go, we have to make travel arrangements." Christine decided now was as good a time as any to discuss that inevitability. "Wisconsin is a long, long way from here. How do you want to get there?"

"A plane, I suppose. Rental car the rest of the way." He wrinkled his brow in consternation. "You're worried about traveling with me?"

"I'm worried about you traveling, period. I don't think they'll let a masked man on a plane – not with the way security is these days."

"I can't go without it." The logistics of moving himself across the country loomed darkly in his mind.

"No. You can't." Christine felt anger at that injustice well inside her, but brutally pushed it down. Now was not the time. "We could rent a car. I have a little money put aside..."

"We don't have to worry about money." Erik waved a hand dismissively. One could drive in a mask. There would be no security to clear. "How long a drive is it?"

"Very. It will take about three days."

"We'll just have a road trip then."

Christine grinned broadly. Six days in a car sounded like torture. Six days in a car with Erik, however, sounded wonderful.

Christine should have known that things were going too well. She and Erik were blissfully happy. Because they were living together and time with Erik was no longer a rare commodity, she was able to spend more time with Meg. The two women had missed each other terribly – catching up on one another's gossip required several 'girls' nights out'.

Meg even began visiting Christine at home. Slowly, grudgingly, she and Erik came to respect, and then to appreciate, each other. They had one much-loved interest in common – Christine. Erik learned to like Meg's brazen personality, while Meg soon found that Erik had a rapier wit she could play off to great effect.

The Saturday park performances continued, drawing more spectators at each show. With an widely varied repertoire ranging from classical to folk rock and a mysterious image, Strange Noise became a sensation in Seattle and parts beyond. Thanks to the modern marvel of cellular phones, people were able to stake out the parks and call their friends when they found the one where the performance was being held. It was not unusual to draw a crowd that spread beyond their sight.

Among the audience there were almost always a couple of reporters from various newspapers, circulars, monthlies and magazines. More than once, Erik smirked as he edited an article praising the unknown artists of "Strange Noise." Since the unpleasant experience with Ms. Bertrand, they declined interviews; the reporters had to be satisfied with reporting the crowd size and setlist. Most were, considering the phenomenal music.

Some, however, were unwilling to respect the anonymity of the performers.

Meg realized she'd made a mistake the moment his name left her lips. She was so proud of her friends' success, it never occurred to her that the friendly, persuasive reporter on the phone might have less-than-honorable intentions. But the woman's smug, "Thank you very much Megan, you are always such a pleasure to talk to," followed by a click, woke her suspicions.

Briefly, Meg considered calling Christine to tell her the mistake she'd made, but then thought better of it. She and Christine had only just begun to feel like old friends again and Meg really didn't think this little slip was worth getting Christine red-faced and angry over. What would an arts and entertainment reporter do with some guy's name, anyway?