I suppose Meg is a bit of a bad (or good) influence—a matching Valentine's story to the previous Christmas Desserts. Enjoy!
"And what did you do after that?"
"Put your arms up. Yeah. Like that. And hold your hair. No. With your other hand."
"Like this?"
Meg sighed.
"What?"
"Just… be sexy."
"What does that even mean?"
"You played Carmen last fall. You know what that means! And don't tell me you don't because I know all the reviews were drooling over you."
The brunette let out a huff. She had no idea what her friend meant. Onstage, it was easy. She would rehearse, get notes, study the character, and…perform. Carmen was straightforward. Once she got the music down, that was. Dancing and drinking. A sway of the hips, a flutter of the eyes, a dash of a smile. Rolling out syllables with a heady lilt.
But this was real life. And she was Christine.
Not that 'acting sexy' mattered to her husband. At least, she believed. He had never recoiled from her, regardless of her affinity for wool turtlenecks and baggy jeans. She doubted what she wore mattered to him.
But she wanted to do something special.
It was his birthday. Or she thought it was? After years of marriage, they still did not know his birthday, and Erik let it pass without incident. Ignoring the day altogether didn't sit right with her, though. Since he refused, insisting that his birth marked a terrible blight to the earth or something dramatic like that, she had chosen a day. February Second. The weather was cold, which she thought fit him. Not too close to Christmas. She argued that since it neared Valentine's Day, he would receive gifts anyway. Secretly, she decided it was because of Groundhog Day. Erik very much reminded her of the little creature. His mood dictated a lot about the future. And he liked to hole up. And he was cute. But she kept those thoughts to herself.
At his insistent no, she pressed.
"Well, I am going to celebrate it."
"I will not."
"How about we combine it with Valentine's Day? That way, you can get me something, too." It was a good compromise, she figured.
"No saint wants Erik to share a date with his holiness. I do not want gifts or cake or any such nonsense."
"Well, I want to celebrate you. Even if you didn't ask me to be your Valentine this year."
"You are my wife."
"Still." She knew it was silly, but she wanted him to ask her! She wanted the bouquet of roses, and the chocolates, and all the little things to know he was thinking of her. He had managed to get her something most years but had been absent-minded lately. Working for hours on the computer, or piano, or reading. "We'll just combine the two. That way, it will be more of an event."
"I do not want an event."
"I am going to get you a present anyway! Would you rather I choose summer? We can have a big pool party."
He sneered and stormed to his music room. But his lack of words sent a thrill through her. February fourteenth it was.
And now, the day approached. She had replaced the calendar weeks ago. After stowing the Christmas lights in the plastic bins and hauling them to the attic, she thought about what to get her husband. He had enjoyed his gifts. A rich, dark Bourdeaux, new slippers. He was currently making use of the thick music papers. He would be distracted for hours. She gave Meg a call.
Two weeks later, they stood under fluorescent lighting in the massive department store. She began to feel hopeless as she conversed with Meg over the wire racks.
"Which one do men like?"
Meg sighed. "Christine, you two have been married for years. And you have not worn lingerie? Are you a virgin?"
"Hush," Christine swatted her with a lacy red bra. Meg giggled.
"Can I help you ladies?" An older woman in a pencil skirt arched a brow at them.
"No, it's fine, thanks-"
"-Yes, actually. My friend here is looking to treat her husband for his birthday. He's been distracted lately."
"Meg!"
The woman smiled as if she had heard it before. "May I offer some suggestions?" Christine's face was bright red as she let the retail worker lead her into a dressing room.
There were only a few tasks left. She would accomplish the last part of the gift by herself.
Despite Meg's comment, Erik always had paid her much attention. Yesterday, he set flowers on her bedside before she woke up. Pink peonies, her favorite. Last week, after she made muffins, he came into the kitchen after she excitedly called to him. The baked goods had been disappearing from the countertop all week. And over the last year, his music had lost its longing quality, replaced with a firmer, steadier intonation that she could only describe as trust.
But the excitement had faded.
She supposed that was normal. Couples went to work. They cooked lasagnas and swept up the crumbs from the floor. They did each other's laundry and paid the water bill. Their Christmas had been quiet, their January quieter, and the extended break at the Opera House left her restless. Rehearsals started in a week for Don Giovanni. She worried they would see each other even less.
And they had not slept together in weeks.
She meant that literally. He had not come to bed. First, there was a trip to see Mrs. Valerius upstate. She had traveled there for a few days. At New Year's, some new Mezzo friends had a party. She arrived home at midnight, but Erik locked himself in his music room, brooding the entire night. She mourned not having a New Year's kiss. She had rushed home to see him in time! She felt shoved aside and found herself nurturing outside relationships. She realized he might be avoiding her as he stayed up again in his room. Her thoughts circled as she stared at the ceiling fan. Was he bored with her?
The recent season had been exhausting, and she stuck to sweatsuits and fuzzy slippers most of the time. Was she getting… Undesirable? Old? She didn't feel old, but who knew with Erik? Whatever his reasons, the ease of their marriage had weakened. Did he not love her?
She had shook her head at the thought. Erik would not think like that. He was probably stressed. Or busy.
But how else was she to interpret his silence?
After their hours-long shopping spree, Meg took her to get their hair and makeup done. When the stylist pulled out the straightener, she requested the big barrel curler. She still wanted to look like herself. Then came a more-than-painful waxing session. Popping a Tylenol, she dwelled on the upcoming task. This stinging pain would be worth it. She wanted to feel feminine and pretty. As they wandered out of the floor-to-ceiling beige room, glamoured up and skin burning, Meg pulled her into a nail salon with a chandelier.
As they stared at the book of color selections, Christine wondered what Erik would prefer. He hadn't said much on the subject. At the Opera House, her nail color had been limited to neutrals. Before her career and before she met Erik, she couldn't afford to get them done. She had gotten good at painting them herself. But this was special. A glance at the booklet, and she decided. She smiled as she pointed to the sparkly ruby acrylic.
"Perfect!" chattered the woman, rubbing some luxurious-smelling cream over her hands. She leaned back into the massage chair and relaxed her feet in the jet tub. Eucalyptus wafted through the air.
She could use another day like this.
The day ended with a quick stop for iced coffee with some sugar cookie syrup that was deliciously sweet. She knew Erik would hate it and giggled. Then, her heart sunk at the fact they wouldn't see him until later tonight. Meg was busy posting a picture of their drinks on social media when Christine tapped open her phone screen.
It was blank. The picture of Erik's hands over the piano keys stared back at her. He had insisted she avoid his face, or mask, for her background, so she had to be creative.
She touched the messaging app, typing something quick.
Meg and I are finishing up our spa day, getting some coffee now. What are you up to?
To her surprise, three dots popped up. Then disappeared.
His read receipts were turned off. Or course. But she knew he had seen her text! Trying not to panic and call him, she typed again.
I miss you
The three dots made an appearance. Then, in a green bubble:
I will see you tonight
Should she call him? What was he doing? Did he eat that day? At least Ayesha was there with him, she thought. Before she could click call, Meg began talking again.
"So, do you have the camera and film and stuff?"
Her thoughts were so wrapped up in Erik that she blanked momentarily.
"Christine?"
"Yes, Oh my gosh."
Meg looked around. "What? It's not like what you're doing is illegal. Would some consider it immoral, maybe? She is checking into a hotel without her husband! The scandal!"
"Stop. You're making this weird." She twirled her wedding ring around. He had kept adding diamonds to them every anniversary, and she suddenly stopped moving for fear of damaging them.
Meg laughed. "You're going to enjoy yourself. Relax. You are all ready, so I believe my job is done." She reached over the chair to shrug on her coat.
"Where are you going?"
"I told you before I had to teach this tap class. The person the college had was sick, I guess." She shrugged.
"Well, good luck."
"No. You good luck. And you look freaking gorgeous. Like supermodel level. He's going to love it."
The tinny bell attached to the door jingled, and she watched Meg's confident stride disappear down the busy sidewalk.
Christine sighed, chugging the rest of her caffeinated beverage and trying to emulate her friend's posture. Pretend you are onstage; pretend you are onstage. This is just a performance.
The hotel was not far, and no one overanalyzed her when she checked in at the front desk. The room had been cleaned, and the bedding was fresh. She took a deep breath and stripped. Surprisingly, it was more natural than she thought it would be.
Was she... sexy?
She pulled up to the house and parked in the garage. It was totally dark. Had he gone somewhere? Envelope tucked into her coat, she made her way up the steps, fumbling with her keys. She checked her phone. Eighteen missed calls. Had her phone been on silent? Panic coursed through her. She had been so wrapped up in her recent dabble in seduction that she hadn't bothered to check her phone. She did not want the evening before Valentine's to go like this.
The house was eerie and unwelcoming.
"Erik?"
No answer.
"Erik?"
"Erik is glad his little wife has wandered home."
She sighed. She wanted to wash the makeup off and brush her hair out. "I am sorry I missed your calls. I was-" How could she spoil the surprise? "-busy. But I told you I would be back at nine. It is-" She rechecked her phone, and the banner notifications with all the missed calls teased her. "-eight-fifteen."
He seemed in no mood for her apologies. "Yes, Christine was out, but where was her little friend?"
A surge of annoyance went through her. "Stop calling every woman 'little.' We are thirty years old."
Today, she felt like she had aged five years. Perhaps the last wisps of girlhood were fading. She didn't know how she felt about that. She realized she was arguing with his disembodied voice when she made it through the kitchen, flipping the lights on. No one was there.
She rolled her eyes. This type of trick did not scare her anymore.
"Come out. I want to talk to you."
"But Erik is only reciprocating in kind. Turnabout is fair play!"
He emerged from their bedroom. As she peered past him, she saw her things were in shambles. Her tights lay strewn across the drawers, her jewelry covered the dresser, and her silk pajamas dotted the comforter.
"What did you do?"
He scrutinized her hair and face. The makeup, she realized. Did he like it? She thought the stylists had done a great job.
His eyes flared. "Merely helping Christine get a head start."
"On what?"
"Moving out. We must sell the house. Or perhaps she would like to stay here. Yes, her creature can go back underground. Then, my apologies. I should not have assumed."
Her heart started thudding. Her ring caught on the thin lace of the stocking, creating a gash in the fabric.
"I am surprised you kept it on. I did not think you could be so cruel."
A pounding began in her head. Anger washed over her. After everything she had gone through. On today of all days. Her skin still tingled in weird places. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You must make me say it? Oh, you are a cruel woman indeed. Perhaps that is why I fell in love with you. Evil attracts cruelty."
Her thick sweater was too hot, and she wanted to tug it off but realized now was not the moment. The bra was scratchy, and she moved to adjust it on her breast.
"Did he touch you there?"
Now she was pissed. "Just what are you accusing me of?" At his blank stare, she continued. "Say it."
"You enjoyed your stay at the hotel?"
"How did you?" Her face heated. He had probably tracked her phone after she missed all the phone calls. "Oh my god, I am so embarrassed."
"Embarrassment? I would think shame would factor somewhere. Embarrassment, no. Maybe, perhaps, when you tell your friends."
"Why would I tell my friends?"
He clapped his hands together and laughed. "Oh! Of course! Why would you? Good little Christine would never tell her friends."
"Well, Meg knows."
"Does she? It is good to know that Erik is playing the cuckold in the eyes of not one but two women!"
Realization dawned. "Do you think I was with someone? In the hotel?"
Her husband's incredulous expression made her rush through the following words. She took a big inhale. "First, I don't even want to begin to tell you how angry I am that you would assume that of me. I would never, could never-" Such a thought revolted her.
"You did not respond to my message."
"I was trying to call you, but Meg had to leave, and well, I was so nervous about what I was about to do that I forgot about it, I guess." She knew it was a lame excuse, but it was the truth.
She examined him. His mask was off. His shirt was rumpled. One sleeve was rolled up, the other loose. He kept silent. He was offering her the chance to explain.
"I was with Meg, and we did all the girly things I told you about, but I just didn't tell you why. Then I booked a room for a few hours. But I wasn't going there to cheat!" The idea sent shivers down her spine. Erik would kill the man.
"Why else would you be getting gussied up all day? You never do such a thing."
"Now you are the one embarrassing me. I wanted- " She sighed. "I wanted to..."
"Speak, woman. I did not teach you to stutter!"
She sometimes forgot how mean he could be.
"I wanted to impress you. For Valentine's Day. And your birthday. A surprise."
He still wasn't understanding. She thrust the envelope at him before he could open his mouth again. "I guess the surprise is ruined. And for your information, the camera was automatic and self-operated."
He squinted at the envelope even though she knew he had perfect vision. All her clothes lay around her as the mattress gave under her weight. She felt like a Barbie doll someone had played with too hard. Erik's long fingers flipped open the paper.
His eyes widened. Then his mouth dropped.
Did she make him speechless?
Regret blossomed in his eyes, and he kneeled in front of her. "Christine. I could not– How dare I– I should not have–"
Her eyes became wet. She wiped it away only to realize the stylist had worn thick black lashes. Heavy mascara smeared across her cheek. "This marriage means everything to me. You mean everything."
"My kind, perfect wife. Erik is a vile, disgusting, horrid-"
She held up a hand. "Stop. Just say you're sorry."
"Erik is sorry." He hung his head. His eyes moved to the envelope, now partially opened. "This- you did this for me?"
"Yes." She sniffled, "I should have been more responsible and checked my phone."
"Erik was worried for his wife's safety. But when he saw the hotel-"
"-you assumed the worst."
He looked ashamed. Eyes downcast, head drooped.
"We haven't been as close recently. That's why I wanted to do this. You seemed bored with me."
"Bored? Bored! Such a thought is ludicrous."
"We haven't-" She coughed. "It's been a while."
"I believed you desired space. You had been with your guardian and friends to parties."
"Just because I have a social life doesn't mean I don't love my husband. It's not a zero-sum game."
He was now somehow lower on his knees. How did he crouch like that with his height? "It is hard for Erik to see things the way Christine does."
Feeling brave in her higher position, she swallowed. "Do you want me, Erik?"
"Every hour of every day." He said with no hesitation.
"Maybe I need you to act like you do more often." He inclined his head. She knew he was being vulnerable, but she was too, and they had to face this together. "And maybe I can try to be more bold. I am trying to be less… shy with these things. I don't know why it is so easy on stage."
"Acting is simpler than marriage."
She hiccuped, smiling. He always managed to string together complicated feelings into simple words. Sometimes, she wondered if they were drawn to opera because the real world was too confusing. Squeezing his hand, she rose. "I am going to wash this off. I will be back." She hoped he wouldn't run off.
"You are very beautiful."
She let out a gurgling laugh. She probably looked crazy. She tried to chalk up his accusation to a weird misunderstanding, but it stung deep in her chest. He had seemed so convinced, with so little evidence. Despite how hurt she was, she wanted to be with him. And she didn't want to be alone. She knew she would only feel worse if she went to bed by herself again. And Erik's guilt was pouring out of him. They would both be worse for wear come morning. Scrubbing the ruined makeup off, she felt marginally better when she stepped outside.
The bedroom was immaculate, all traces of his previous paranoia erased. She caught him flipping through the thick film photos, fingers stroking them. Their eyes met, and he dropped them like hot coals.
Her lip quirked up. "You can look at them. They are for you."
"I do not deserve such… treasures."
"Let me be the judge of that."
He blinked. She glanced near his waist to see his pants had tightened. They stared at each other, locked in an awkward standstill.
"You painted your nails red."
Looking at them, she realized that, through all the chaos, she had forgotten and let out a reedy laugh. "Heh. Yeah."
"They are nice."
"They'll make me change them before performances."
"Christine should do things she enjoys."
"Would you come here?"
He padded forward like an injured animal, and she had to grab his hand to place on her waist. She inhaled. He had sweat, and it smelt good.
"I am unclean."
"I don't care." She wrapped a hand around his back and rubbed. He was tense as a bowstring.
"You desire this? After how fiendish I have treated you?"
"I was telling the truth earlier. I miss you."
His breath came uneven, and his hand resting on her hip gripped tighter. "I need you." His hand wandered under her sweater, feeling an odd material. "Christine?"
She felt him harden. "I still have them on. If you want to see."
He let out a disbelieving scoff as his hands traveled up the lacing and onto the bodice. With quick work, she stood in the lingerie, feeling unnatural. His yellow eyes flickered as they roved over her, scanning the divot of her waist to the curves of her breasts.
"Well?"
His hand splayed through her curls, and they tugged. Their mouths met. His tongue delved past her lips, and she felt his thick length pressing against her stomach. He groaned.
A rush of power surged within her, and she moaned. He wanted because of her. Trying to steer things differently, she backed him into the bed, pushing his chest. His nostrils flared, yet he obeyed. She sat on his lap and ground against him. Flicking each button open, she removed the cotton dress shirt to skim his bony chest with her hands. It had been so long since she felt him. Truly felt the skin under her palm and took note of the ridges and patterned scars that crisscrossed his torso. Her lips brushed each nipple, her scarlet nails contrasting against the pale skin. He let out a sigh when she dragged her teeth along his earlobe.
"I must have you. Let me have you."
She felt his hands trace her thigh, tugging the thin fabric down.
"No." At the removal of his hand on her leg, she continued. "Not yet. I want to be with you. Just-" She gathered her thoughts, knowing what she said would probably burn into his memory. "I want us to take our time tonight." She felt as if they always hurdled toward the end. Rushing, devouring, she wanted to savor, to taste, knowing there would be another bite.
She hovered over him, licking his lips. She languidly explored his mouth, and he followed her lead.
In the morning, on the festival of Saint Valentine, she awoke to a steaming coffee, pale with milk and heaping scoops of sugar. Several assortments of roses- red, white, and pink dotted the bedroom, and she heard the soft clatter of an active kitchen. The envelope was gone.
This holiday was a success, she decided.