The Woman and the Naughty BoyRed hair and red lips against skin as fine as porcelain. Big, blue eyes that sparkled when a smile crossed those red lips. Defined cheekbones on her face. The Woman, as she was known to him, was drying her hair in the apartment across the street.He was Jerry, a newly-divorced man with nothing going for him in his life. His children hated him and his ex-wife never wanted to see him again. All Jerry had was the woman across the way with the red hair that kept her windows open when she showered.She had a perfect figure. 36-24-36, he assumed. Every night, at about 9:00, she would step into a tub full of bubbles and take joy in washing every inch of her body. Jerry watched through the blinds, hoping to never be seen.Her legs, her tiny waist, her breasts, she had the ideal bodywhat women everywhere wanted and what men everywhere desired. Just thinking about the Woman made Jerry feel awful. He was much too old to be ogling a lady through the window like a teenage Peeping Tom. Yet
ErikHe smelled of death. His skin, rotting away, was a disgusting yellowish tone. On his face, there was no nose, but two black holes that sat in the spot where it should have been. His eyes were sunken in and dark circles surrounded them.To hide his shame, he wore a mask, for he could not show his true self before her. She was his angel. Everything about her was perfect, and everything about him was wrong.He was Erik, the "Phantom of the Opera" that lived in the cellars of the Palais Garnier. A genius composer with a face so disfigured that not even a mother could love. She was Christine Daae, the beautiful Swedish soprano who called him the "Angel of Music." Erik was no angel. If he was, he would be the Angel of Death.He approached his organ, and let his fingers caress its keys. The melody he played came from Don Juan Triumphant, his life's work and greatest achievement. Each note was filled with passion. It truly burned.The lair he lived in was not really a dark place.