The Universe's Mixer

( Like a small boat on the ocean... )

As the sounds of the town car faded behind him, Erik slowed his pace up the sunset-lit front steps of the City Opera House. His opera house, his most beautiful creation. Its fertile fields had been left fallow for far too long. Tucked under his arm was the score for Puccini's La Bohème, an opera that he learned about in the City. He was too weary to have written another composition himself, at least, not in time for the opening summer season. In having chosen a seemingly well-known opus, he expected that his company would have no trouble quickly picking up their parts. He needed to but set it before them.

But, as he stood before the door to the place he cherished above all, he found it difficult to put his hand to the task of letting himself inside. There were too many ghosts haunting this place, and none of them were him, an irony that had him grimly smiling despite himself. He lingered on the top step, one hand on the railing, and did his best to silently exorcise the spirits he felt waiting behind that grand door.

He was not terribly successful. And, as he stood there, he realized what a foolish sight he must be. Again smiling with a sardonic sort of twist, he propelled himself forward smoothly. His opera house had waited long enough for its master. The City had been too long without music. And he.... He was an old and tired fool, who should have learned by now that dwelling on the pain of the past only made it more difficult to walk toward the future. He squared his shoulders.

Enough of this.

The curtains in the kitchen were drawn closed against the morning sun - and against the raging pounding in the composer's head. Unlike many in the past, this particular drumbeat symphony was fueled by the gin-soaked excesses of the previous evening. He could still taste the liquor on his breath. He could smell it oozing from his pores. Despite having dressed as neatly and cleanly as ever, he still felt as ragged and dirty as the exhibit he once had been.

His binge had accomplished what he'd intended; it had taken his mind off his losses. First Christine, then Hannibal... Erik rubbed a black-gloved thumb over the handle of his coffee mug before taking another sip. Mourning them would not bring them back. He could not follow where Christine had gone, and he was not willing to join his friend -- at least, not yet, not while there was still the opportunity to seek and find and create beauty. The diva, that Magdelene Defoe, had coaxed him back toward his first love, and he couldn't leave it now.

A small sound across the darkened kitchen caught his attention, both because it was out of place and because it was far louder than his delicate head wanted it to be. When he looked, he saw nothing at first. Then, the small head of a small girl appeared on the other side of the kitchen counter. The girl.

"Arrie," he said, his voice whisper soft - not by design but by necessity.