It was weeks like this that Monica could do without. She had been sent to New York in the dead of winter to fix the books for a client that was in some rather serious financial trouble stemming from incompetence in their accounting department. Upon arriving she knew that the week she had in the Big Apple would be spent working dogs hours as the incompetence in accounting apparently knew no bounds. Upon calling the home office to complain she spent her fifteen minutes on hold wishing she had never left the temperate climes of her home in Arizona. She was stuck in a tiny hotel room on the Upper East Side and the temperature outside never climbed above ten. Her one consolation were the opera tickets her boss sent her by way of an apology for sending her on this unholy mission. He knew she was a big fan of the opera and he arranged for her to attend a night of young and rising tenors performing selected arias at the Met.
She arrived the Met full of hope that her week would at least have a bright spot, but now standing in her coat in front of the fountain having a cigarette during intermission she knew that this was just a bad week. These young tenors had none of the feel of the great throats of earlier generations and their nerves were apparent in the way they were strangling the highs. She stared across Columbus avenue through the fog and haze of her breath one last time before stubbing out her smoke and heading back inside for more of the sonic torture awaiting her there. At least it was preferable to the miserable cold outside.
Erik's week was going no better, although his was more a comedy of errors; minor setbacks that build up and ruin your state of mind. Dropping his lunch after working himself to near starvation, spilling coffee on his favorite shirt, and burning himself pretty much every time he tried to light a cigarette. Tonight was the topper. As the assistant to the senior sound engineer at the Metropolitan Opera House he was obligated to spend his evenings trapped behind a mixing board rather than at Dorney's decompressing with the boys. This week was exceptionally atrocious due to the particularly sorry performance. A group of young and highly touted tenors had been horrible in rehearsals and were proving even worse under the glare in their performance night tuxedos. After a miserable first half he had raced through his intermission level checks and was rushing through the doors for a quick smoke before he was due back behind the doors. To make matters worse he had to leave the dry heat of the concert hall for the freezing winter February air in only his shirtsleeves as grabbing his coat would take too long.
Monica froze in her tracks. Something familiar caught her vision near the side of the mall in the thick of the crowd receding back into the building. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was as she scanned the crowd looking for what it was that struck her deeper memories. Before long an uncommon sight met her eyes: a man in a tee shirt standing in the freezing cold was fumbling for a light. She saw on his right forearm the familiar sight that jogged her memory; a thin black band of crossed sabers twisting over ropes of oft used muscle.
Groaning to himself over yet another minor misfortune that further shortened his strained temper was the fact that his lighter was in the pocket of his coat. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was now going to have to return to his post without the soothing effect of the smoke he was longing for throughout the interminable hour and a half he had labored so far. The flame that inexplicably flared before his face brought a smile to his lips, not just for the fact that he now had a minute to smoke but conjured up a wonderful memory.
Eight years prior was the first time he had seen her, four years later the last. He was working his way through school behind a soundboard for small Student Association functions. There was a free concert in the Student center and he was taking a break after setting up. Standing outside in the freezing midwestern winter he was trying to light his cigarette but finding his matches were still inside. Before he could curse under his breath a tiny hand kindled a small gas flame in front of his face. Looking to his right he saw thick, soft black hair cascading down to a slender set of shoulders. In the dim glare of the lighter he saw that the heavy, black curtain framed a face that held both the gentle roundness and high cheekbones of the mixed Asian and European blood of the bearer. The result was an uncommonly striking beauty. Wide grins spread across both their faces as he leaned forward to light his Lucky Strike.
The tattoo raced Monica's mind back eight years almost to the day, that early February night under the footbridge from the Student Center to the Clemens Library where she met him. She had gone with some friends to see Skaface at the student center and was outside having a smoke before the show. From the doors to her left emerged a sinewy statue of a man. A cigarette hanging from his mouth the ropes of muscle causing the thin black band of ink on his forearm to ripple as he fished in his pockets for a light. His gaunt face became more and more visible through the thick tangle of curls in front of it as she approached, lighter at the ready.
Her lighter had kindled a lot more than a cigarette; they were inseparable after that night. They moved into a house together with a few other housemates after their freshman year and spent the rest of their collegiate careers learning as much about each other as they did their respective fields of study. He spent his days studying the physics of sound, she the math of finance. At night they were together studying each other's minds and bodies. Before long they knew each other inside and out. He was everything she could have wanted as a lover and confidant, she was his sheela-na-gig, devouring him body and soul.
They stayed in a state of self-contained bliss until graduation. She earned a job with a prominent accounting firm in Arizona while he was drawn to New York to earn his MFA in sound and stage production at Julliard. They spent a week huddled together crying and making love in their room, emerging only for small meals, before going their ways. They kept in touch for a year but life goes on.
These memories swirled before her eyes and before she knew it she was standing next to him lighting his cigarette. He turned to his left to thank the owner of the flame and stopped dead dropping his cigarette to the ground. He was staring into the face of his great lost love. The smiles that spread over their faces were wider and far less controlled than the first ones they shared upon meeting. They embraced as euphorically as only two people so connected and out of touch could. "Holy shit, Monica, how are you!"
"Great! Well, now I am. What are you doing here?"
"Slaving away behind the board as usual. What about you, don't tell me you moved to New York without looking for me?" he asked with anger he wasn't himself sure was mocking or sprung from true disappointment at being forgotten.
"Oh, Jesus, not at all. I was sent here to work on the assignment from Hell, I leave tomorrow." The word tomorrow hung in the air notifying them that their reunion would be brief. "You work here? That must be amazing, all the great music you get paid to hear," she tried to alleviate the awkwardness.
"Usually it's not that bad, but you've seen what I've had to deal with all week with this trash. Just the capper on an awful week." He looked into those familiar glistening brown eyes and felt the euphoria spread through him again. "What am I talking about? I can't believe I'm seeing you. This is a fantastic week."
They made plans to meet at a nearby bar after he got off work and catch up. He spent the remainder of his working hours lost in warm memories. She squirmed in her seat oblivious to the butchering of an aria from Don Giovanni. The moments ticked off and when the curtain closed she made for the coat check and then the door as quickly as she could. He arranged for the second assistant to supervise the strike and left just as fast.
His knowledge of the streets of the city brought him to the bar before her and he was nestled in a booth in back sipping his first pint when she walked in. Heads turned while she was still in her coat. The Met crowd never traveled far enough south after a show to drink with the plebes and the well-groomed affluence she radiated was a rare sight. Her toned legs carried her on her winding path through the thick crowd towards the back, everyone watching to see where this determined woman was striding. When she arrived at a booth occupied by a scruffy man in a threadbare tee shirt and dirty jeans most of them turned away in disinterest. The few that gawked on in disbelief were treated to a vision as she dropped her heavy wool coat. Her black crushed velvet dress was definitely not off the bargain rack. The wide straps over her shoulders cris-crossed eight inches below her neck and continued to plunge all the way to the bottom of the deeply cut back, her smooth skin, golden skin exposed to the base of her spine.
Erik stared in glorious reminiscence at the flesh he remembered as so soft and warm. The limber arms that held him so tightly those years ago reached out after placing her coat on the bench inviting him to stand for a more proper embrace. He stood and placed a quick kiss on her cheek as they hugged warmly. The waitress came to take her drink order after they sat and they began to catch up.
"My God, you haven't changed at all," she exclaimed as she leaned back to drink in his sight.
