“I like it though,” Aris says.
“A good match then,” the woman says and walks off.
Aris watches as the redhead continues to examine the objects on each table, hoping to be reunited with her beloved things. She wonders how much time the woman has wasted in this cycle on trying to remember.
“That’s beautiful,” a deep and familiar voice says.
She looks up and meets Metis’s brown eyes. The genius pianist she ran into in the rain. The one whose performance she ruined. She feels her cheeks warming.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he says with a smile. “We’ve never properly met. I’m Metis.”
In the bright light of the day, she can see him better. His black hair is a little bit longer and slightly tousled, not slicked back like it was at his concert or drenched by the rain. It suits him and makes him look younger. Less severe. And very handsome.
Aris feels her heart beating faster.
“Hi. Um. I’m Aris.”
Blood pulses in her face. She catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of a store window and feels like digging a hole to hide in. This has never happened before. Is she starstruck? She is acting like a complete immature idiot.
“That’s a nice find,” he says. His eyes on the object she holds to her chest.
“Do you want it?” she asks and immediately shoves it into his hands. “Here, take it.”
“Don’t you want it?” His face is puzzled.
“No, it doesn’t go with my house.”
“Ah. If that’s the case, I know just the spot for this.”
“Do you live around here?” she asks.
“I live in Lysithea.”
“In one of the Painted Ladies?”
He nods. It is as she has suspected.
“Why are you here?” Aris asks. “I mean—Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
He smiles. “There’s a bookstore I like around the corner.”
“Oh. Don’t let me keep you.”
“I just came from there. I’m actually on my way to Callisto. Carnegie Hall.”
The memory of his concert surfaces.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Shame must have shown on her face. She decides to confess.
“It was me,” she says. “At your concert. I should have muted my watch. I’m sorry.”
He gives her a gentle smile. “Don’t be sorry.”
“You were upset.”
“I wasn’t. I was . . . surprised. I don’t handle surprises very well,” he says and adds, “Thank you for being there.”
Aris lets out a long sigh.
“I didn’t realize you felt so bad about it,” Metis says.
“Still do.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Did you come back to finish?” she asks.
“I did. It was immature of me to have left the stage in the first place.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay to see it.”
He looks thoughtful, as if trying to make an important decision.
“I have a proposal,” he says in a slow and deliberate way. “Since you didn’t get to hear me play the entire concert, would you like to come with me to Carnegie Hall? I’ll make up for it.”
Aris’s heart does a quick jump.
“Will I get to see the backstage?”
He nods his head. “Anything.”
She smiles.
“This way,” he says and points toward the train station.
She feels his warm fingers touching the small of her back. Then just as quickly, the warmth disappears.
Carnegie Hall is on the opposite end of the Park from the Natural History Museum, where she works. Aris does not normally venture to this section of the city except for concerts, so she lets Metis lead her.
They walk past the park, where the trees are bare and vulnerable. A biting breeze nips at the tip of her nose, and she hugs her jacket a little tighter.
People in their black and gray winter coats hurry past them. The wind picks up and rushes between the buildings, sending Aris’s hair flying. She feels like she is walking in a wind tunnel. She gathers her hair in one hand and moves it over her shoulder. She looks at Metis from the corner of her eye. Strands of his hair flutter in the wind, but he does not seem bothered by the cold.
He says very little during their walk, but there is texture in his silence. She could almost feel the weight of the thoughts rippling off him. For a moment, she wonders how many women he has offered to play a private concert for. He seems too serious to be the type that uses his talent to lure in dates. And he is too good looking to need to. But she can never be sure.
“Let’s cross here,” he says.
He grabs her hand and leads her across the street. Aris feels her face heating up. She is becoming annoyed by how easily he is affecting her. Once they reach the other side, he lets go. She finds she misses the warmth of his hand.
Aris looks around. The street signs and buildings are unfamiliar. She has never walked this path before. She wonders when they are going to reach their destination.
They walk block after block, weaving through alleys and turning several corners. She wonders if he is making the direction confusing on purpose so she will not remember how to get back.
“We’re here,” Metis says, finally.
A brick building with a mellow ochre hue stands in front of them. They are in the back of a nondescript alley.
“This is Carnegie Hall?”
Metis nods and smiles.
Without the grand arched windows of the front facade, the building looks different.
“I’ve never seen it from this side before,” she says.
“Wait until you see where I’m taking you,” he says with the enthusiasm of a boy sharing a secret play spot.
There are several black doors on the side of the building—entrances for musicians and staff. Metis twists the handle of one door and pushes against it. It’s darker inside. It takes a minute for Aris’s eyes to adjust.
She follows him through a maze of hallways that he navigates
