Christine finished playing and sat limply for a moment, catching her breath. When she raised her head, the sound of applause flooded out of her speakers. She’d played with passion, without mistakes. She’d impressed herself with her own performance. Apparently, she’d impressed him, too.

"Brava! Well-played. Haimovitz would be proud. If only I know the supporting pieces! You said you could play, but that was more than I expected."

She could hear the sound of a bow lightly testing violin strings. He continued speaking, "Your performance was extraordinary. Let’s see if I can avoid embarrassing myself entirely. I don’t know if you’ve heard this piece. It’s called "The Lark Ascending" by..."

Christine interrupted him and gushed. "Williams! Oh, I love that piece. It’s one of my all-time favorites!"

There was a pause as Erik adjusted to the concept of being interrupted - and not minding. He settled his chin into the chin rest and began playing. At first, he thought he’d watch and see her reaction to his performance, but the music took him too quickly. His eyes drifted shut as the music took him out of himself and gave him wings.

Christine had a hard time believing it was Erik playing on the other side of the connection. If she had not known the piece well enough to recognize Erik’s unique interpretation of it, she would have suspected that he was simply playing a recording. As it was, she began to suspect something very different. When he stopped playing, she raised her hands to clap, but found herself wiping away tears, instead. "Oh Erik," she breathed, "did you say you were an editor? Are you sure that’s all you are?"

Silence greeted this remark. He didn’t understand the statement - he barely heard it. All he could see was the small, sweet smile and the glistening tracks of tears on her face. He had done that. Ugly, reclusive, abrasive Erik had brought those tears forth with his music. She was speaking again.

"Erik? Why aren’t you a performer? Why aren’t you in some symphonic orchestra, or taking center stage in Carnegie Hall?"

He almost made a biting retort, but then he realized that she was entirely sincere. She didn’t know what he was. He had made very sure that she should not know. He pondered over his reply for a moment.

"I will never perform onstage." It was an insufficient answer, he knew. She wouldn’t accept it. He winced, realizing that a gate had been opened and it was too late to close it.

"But that’s ridiculous, Erik! You...you’re a genius! They’d love you! I can’t believe you’re not a performer."

"Believe it, Christine. Let’s not talk about this. Please." his voice had grown quiet. Christine couldn’t decide if it was pain or fury she was hearing.

"Why not? I tell you everything. Now that I think of it, I don’t think you’ve told me a single damned thing. This is obviously something that’s important to you. Why won’t you talk to me about it?" She knew she was pressuring him dangerously, but didn’t seem to be able to stop herself.

For his part, Erik was warring with fury and sorrow. How dare she push him so? Why did she care? He felt as though he were strangling. "...important to you", she’d said. But she didn’t know the half of it. Erik would have given anything to perform, to share his music with the world. He felt as though he were strangling. He wanted to scream at her and tell her exactly why he wasn’t a performer, but that would frighten her away. That would make her hate him and that would be...well, that would be dreadful.

"Erik?" Her voice was cautious and soft. "Please talk to me."

"I’ll say this one thing, and then I won’t talk about it anymore, so please don’t try." She could hear him draw a deep breath before continuing. "Why won’t I use a webcam? Think about it, Christine. Draw your own conclusions."