Erik stared warily at the blank monitor. What had just happened? He’d gone into the Voicechat session comfortably sure that he could impress her with his voice and his skill - and he had. She'd been amazed. But control had escaped him just when it seemed she was totally under his sway. She had been saying the same things that he’d told himself in the greenness of his youth: he should be performing, he would be great, his face wouldn’t matter if he played well enough. She was so convinced that she was convincing, even though he knew the truth from brutal experience. He had almost told her his secret; what a mistake that would have been. As it was, he had given her too much. "Draw your own conclusions," he’d said, and she would do that, he was sure. Then he had asked her - no, commanded her - to sing, and that was the right thing to do, because it had distracted her from the immediacy of her curiosity.

That’s where things had truly begun to go wrong. In her breathy, untaught voice, she had sung to him sincerely. The lyrics had been more than simple words coming from her. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were a message, that she somehow knew him despite his best efforts to keep her in the dark. He’d been reduced easily to the verge of weeping; like the doctor in W. C. Williams’ "Paterson", he’d been ‘shaken by her beauty, shaken.’ She wasn’t even pretty. Neither am I, he though, grinning wryly. Next to me, she’s Aphrodite. No, not Aphrodite...she’s Artemis: her weapons are youth, innocence and passion. And when she plays...when she sings... He had logged off in self-defense, but promised to meet her the very next day.

A new idea struck Erik then. What if she’s right? Not in the broader sense, but in a very personal sense? What if...what if I can play well enough that she won’t mind that I’m ugly? As soon as he thought it, he knew it was too much to ask and dismissed the posibility harshly. But his lonely part of his mind wouldn't let go. What if she doesn’t mind about the mask? That’s possible, isn’t it? His mind gave no answer. He spoke softly into the darkness of his apartment. "Isn’t it?"

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Christine affectionately stroked the fingerboard of her cello before picking up her flute. She found that she could focus now, and practice as she needed to. As she played, she concentrated on her breathing. Breathing was key to singing, she’d known that even before he had told her. AngelofM... Erik was going to teach her to sing. That thought excited her tremendously.

She knew he would be an exacting teacher; he was obviously a perfectionist. That was no drawback in her eyes. A teacher had to be demanding if a student was to progress. Christine’s excitement was born of an aspiration beyond her lifelong desire to learn to sing. She realized now that all these months, her heart had been there for him to view in bold black and white. She’d given it willingly and guilelessly because he was such a good listener. But he remained a mystery.

Christine was not deaf to the few emotional clues Erik let slip. She’d heard the tremor in his voice when he told her to draw her own conclusions. She’d heard the effect her simple song had had on him. The young barista had decided to befriend her reticent internet acquaintance and thereby learn his secrets. It would be a challenge; she’d have to walk a delicate line to keep him talking to her, to make him trust her. She planned to draw him in as he had drawn her out.

"And Meg, I know music. Anywhere he chose to audition, he’d take first chair without practicing." Christine was talking animatedly, waving her hands in the air and nearly bouncing in her seat. They were eating a quick lunch at the little Italian bistro across from the coffee shop.

Always the levelheaded one, Meg quirked an eyebrow. "If he’s so great, why isn’t he a performer? I mean, talent like that usually doesn’t go unnoticed. Unless it sticks its head in the sand and hides." She paused to throw a sharp look at her friend who was suddenly staring at her salad, pushing a cherry tomato around the plate. "Oh no. I bet he’s just like you."

"What do you mean, ‘...just like me’?"

Meg’s face softened in a sympathy that was almost maternal. Christine was a genius. She could make the cello sit up and wag its tail. She could play the birds down from the trees on her flute. But since her humiliation during her last year at the Lawrence Conservatory, she would only play for close friends and family. "How many times has that annoying little man from the Conservatory called and begged you to come back and finish your work there? How many times have they apologized to you - literally groveled - for what happened? Does the Dean of Students still call every Thursday at 3:30?"

Christine riled. "Meg, that’s really not necessary."

"Have it your way, Christine. But the most amazing cellist within a two-thousand mile radius is eating two-dollar salads and serving mochaccinos for fife-fifty an hour plus tips while she should be off wowing audiences and making a name for herself."

Christine put down her fork hard enough to shake the little metal table and slosh water over the lip of her glass. Quickly regaining control, she picked up the recalcitrant cherry tomato and popped it in her mouth. "But we’re not talking about me, Meg. We’re talking about him. He’s so mysterious. I can just tell he has some deep, dark secret..."

"Like raping little girls he meets on the ‘net?" interjected Meg.

"No! Like a lost love. You should have heard his voice after I sang for him."

"He got you to sing for him? Out loud?"

"That’s typically how singing works, Meg." Christine’s expression went from wry to shy in a split second as she admitted the truth. "It wasn’t hard for him to ‘get me’ to sing. You see, I’m starting to...you know... It’s like in Spring, when you first feel a warm breeze instead of a cold one. Or, it’s like that first bite of Godiva when you’ve got a craving. It’s like..."

"You’ve got a crush."

"Exactly."