A Modern Romance Inspired by The Phantom of The Opera
The world is nothing but one big façade. You have to be special to see the behind the mask.
Beyond her control, she made her way up on the stage and over to his side as he went into the second verse. All she wanted to do was touch him, make sure he was real and not something she conjured the last few days. After singing the chorus, he motioned to her and pointed at the music. He wanted her to sing? Interrupt the perfection? She wanted to listen to him and shook her head. Again, he pointed to the music. Powerless to do anything less than what he asked, she got the feel for the tune, waited for the right moment and sang the third verse. Though she didn’t think she did the song anywhere near the justice Erik did, he must have been pleased by the way he smiled. His song spoke of love, longing and those things unattainable, the perfect message for both of them in many ways. Yes, he had given her a few lessons, but this was the first time she felt like they were creating art, connected on a deeper level, him on the piano, her with her voice, both working toward the same goal of creating the perfect song. When they reached the chorus, his voice joined hers. Christine fought not to stumble on the words. She didn’t want to break the magic of the way their two voices melded together, his supporting hers, taking her to new heights. It was an experience unlike any other she’d ever experienced. They repeated the chorus and the music ended. Erik’s last note hung in the air and Christine wished she could reach out, grab it and hold it in her heart forever. Panting, they turned to each other. He stared into her face, then he reached forward. Her breath hitched. Now he should kiss her. They both felt it, right? Rather than take her into his arms, his fingertip grazed her cheek and wiped a tear she didn’t even know she’d shed. His eyes firmly affixed on hers, he put his fingertip to his mouth. “Erik?” She didn’t really know what question she wanted to ask. “Beautiful.” He grazed the back of his hand along her cheek, down to her jaw and her neck. The way he touched her roused every nerve ending in her body. She had to have him. He found her, they belonged together. “Erik.” This time she gasped his name. “You should rest your voice.” He slid his hand down her shoulder, bowed and walked away. Again, she was left standing on the stage alone.
Kim Carmichael began writing eight years ago when her need for graphic sex scenes and love of happy endings inspired her to create her own. She has a weakness for bad boys and techno geeks, and married her own computer whiz after he proved he could keep her all her gadgets running. When not writing, she can usually be found slathered in sunscreen trolling Los Angeles and helping top doctors build their practices.