Michael showed his ticket to the usher and was nodded on. He knew the way, much to his disappointment. Once again, he’d been too late to get a prime seat. This year, as last year and the year before, he was relegated to a box seat, where the sound tended to be somewhat muffled.

He sighed and entered his cubicle. He’d share it with someone, he was sure -- four straight-backed red velour and gold gilt chairs sat in a stiff row facing the house. He took one on the end and wondered if he’d be fortunate enough to have other music lovers around him, or if, as last year, he’d be forced to endure the shufflings of a child too young to go to the symphony. Little Precious (for that apparently had been the dreadful child’s name) was enough to try the patience of a saint, and Michael was no saint. More than once he’d clenched his fists in his lap while Little Precious stage-whispered to her mother, who tended to hiss back loudly, “Mumsie’s Little Precious must be quiet.” If only she knew, Michael though sourly, how close the world had been to losing Little Precious.

Horrid child. He peered over the edge of his box, searching the audience for his nemesis. There, in the middle of the floor at orchestra level, he saw a small bright head being led to a choice seat by a tallish woman in red. Satisfied that this year at least, he’d be spared the horrors of Little Precious’s company, he watched her mother settle her in her seat. The mother handed Little Precious a bag of M&Ms (which, from experience, Michael knew would explode upon opening, sending a clatter of candy onto the wooden floor), a coloring book and colors (which Michael knew would soon follow the candy) and a doll with half her hair shaved off and Marks-a-Lot Indian war paint on her face. Little Precious sat back, looking around with the world-weary eye of a wealthy child who has too much, and spotted Michael. She gave a cheery smile and Michael gave her the look he’d given her all last year: narrowed eyes, straight thin mouth, unsmiling countenance. It still had no effect. Little Precious stuck out her tongue and set to work with her coloring book.

Feeling perverse satisfaction laced with jealousy -- Little Precious had better seats than he did, the little wretch -- Michael waited. And as always, his thoughts turned toward Nikita.

How different she was from Simone. Really, it was silly to compare them -- though it was trite, they were as different as night and day. He’d loved Simone. So simple, so trusting, so utterly unprepared for Section, she’d needed his protection and he gave it willingly. They both knew he kept her alive, and she appreciated his efforts.

Unlike Nikita, he thought sourly. Absently, his eyes swept the house from habit. As if conjured up by his thoughts, a tall blonde stalked down the aisle and slid into the row in front of Little Precious. Michael blinked and focused. It can’t be, he told himself. You just have Nikita on your mind.

But then she turned to say something to the man beside her, and Michael blinked again.

Really, this was the last place on earth he would have expected to see Nikita on a Friday night. And how in God’s name had she got such good tickets?

************

Nikita settled in her seat and glanced around. The hall was filling up nicely; in front of her was an elderly couple, and to her left next to the aisle was a youngish man who was changing his beeper to vibrate.

He saw her looking at it and explained, “I’m on call tonight. Last time, I forgot to reset it and got a lot of ugly looks.”

“I didn’t think about that.” Nikita reached into her bag and pulled out her own beeper, setting it to vibrate as well.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“Security.” She kept the gadget loose in her hand so she’d feel it if it went off. “You?”

“Doctor.” He noticed her wedding ring -- she’d taken to wearing it in public now for several reasons -- and asked, “Where’s your husband?”

“Working,” Nikita smiled. “He works a lot of overtime, I’m afraid.”

“My wife’s the same way.” He held up his hand, waggling his wedding ring. “I’m glad someone who likes music can use her seat.”

“Oh, is this --?”

“Yeah, you know how it is. I wasn’t really thinking and bought two season tickets; last week she reminded me she doesn’t really like to come, so I sold one back.”

“Lucky for me,” Nikita smiled then jerked forward as her seat was kicked from behind.

“Hey! Where’s the green!” A shrill voice broke into their conversation, and a brief frown crossed Nikita’s face.

“Here it is, dear ...” A woman’s voice, low but certainly frazzled. “Now, Precious, remember what we talked about ... we have to use our whisper voices.”

“Okay,” Precious whispered loudly. “Give me Belinda. It’s time for her to go to sleep ...”

Nikita’s neighbor grinned faintly and held out his hand. “Henry Martin.”

“Nikita Samuelle.” She shook his hand awkwardly, then as the house lights flickered, she looked around, startled.

“Just a few minutes more,” Henry said, smiling. “This is my favorite part. Right before the beginning. You?”

“I don’t really know,” Nikita said slowly. “This is only the second time I’ve been to a symphony.”

“Really? And you bought season tickets?”

“Well ...” She hesitated, then said lamely, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Nikita laughed a little and explained, “Someone at work accused me of not having a life. You know, few outside interests ... I’d love to take some continuing ed classes, but I have a crazy schedule, so that’s kinda out. A couple of weeks ago I went to the symphony in Boston for work, and somehow ... well, I was working, so I didn’t get to hear the whole thing, and then about a week ago I saw an advertisement for symphony tickets here, and I thought, Why not?”

“Why not, indeed,” Henry agreed. “We have a really fine symphony. One of the top in the country ...”

“I bought a few CDS,” Nikita said, a little shyly. “I’ve really enjoyed them.”

The house dimmed, and the red velvet curtain rose. Henry leaned closer to Nikita. “You’re in for a treat tonight.” Then he sat back and waited.

The conductor appeared. The audience welcomed him. He turned toward his orchestra, hands quiet at his side. He took his baton, tapped it once, nodded to the first violin, and waited while the orchestra tuned. Once everyone was together, he gave them a retard and they were still.

The moment the music started, Nikita lost all sense of who she was or where she was. She just existed, completely enveloped in the music.

She leaned forward a bit and breathed in Schumann.

************

To Michael’s relief, an elderly couple shared his box. To his disappointment, they were both a trifle deaf.

He tuned them out and focused on Nikita. What on earth was she doing here? A mission? Recon? What? The most troubling part of it was his ignorance. If she was working, he should have known about it.

More irritated than ever, he considered calling Section and reporting her, but he rejected that idea. Firstly, it would reflect poorly upon him. Secondly, if she were here for pleasure, he’d look foolish. Thirdly ... the orchestra was starting.

Michael sat back, face as impassive as always, and tried to enjoy the music.

************

Intermission. The lights slowly came up, and Nikita, looking slightly dazed, realized she’d been clenching her beeper tightly. She grinned and unwrapped stiff fingers, checking the display, but nothing showed up.

“Good?” Henry asked her, and she nodded.

“Wonderful. If you’ll excuse me ...”

She exited on slightly wobbly legs and ended up in a 10-minute washroom line. But it gave her a chance to stretch, and by the time she returned to her seat, it was almost time for the second half. Henry was gone, so she didn’t have to climb over him. She picked up her program and examined the second half of the schedule, then flipped to the next page to read about the musical selections.

Little Precious beat a steady drum on the back of Nikita’s chair.

“Precious, don’t do that ...” her mother said mildly, and the drum faded to irregular thumps.

“When can we go home?” Little Precious whined.

“In about 30 minutes or so. You’ll want to hear the second half,” her mother pleaded, a softer version of Precious’s whine. “They’re playing Schubert’s Symphony 8.”

“Who cares?” Little Precious sounded bored. “I wanna go home and watch TV.”

“How about if I run out and get my Little Precious some chocolate? More M&Ms?”

Please, no more caffeine, Nikita pleaded silently, but Precious said brightly, “Okay.”

A rustle of silk while her mother left the row, then Little Precious began a tattoo of kicks against Nikita’s chair.

Nikita twisted around. “Hello.”

Little Precious glanced up. “Hi.”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“Would you mind not kicking my chair?”

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The woman who sat on the other side of Little Precious gave the child a disgusted look and turned to her companion, muttering about misbehaving children. Little Precious studiously ignored both Nikita and her neighbor.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Nikita thoughtfully rubbed her lips together in unconscious imitation of Michael, then in one swift movement, she plucked Little Precious’s coloring book from her hands. “Hey!” Little Precious protested, but Nikita cut her off with one look.

“Behave yourself,” Nikita said sternly. “How old are you? Eight?”

“Nine,” she said defiantly.

“Nine! That’s even worse. You’re acting like a child of five. I’ve known cats with more manners. Straighten up.”

“Or what? You’re not my mother.” Little Precious’s bravado was false, and Nikita smiled a rather cold smile.

“Lucky for you,” Nikita said, eyes narrow and face hard. She tossed the coloring book at Little Precious, who caught it clumsily, her cheeks bright red.

“Here we go --” Little Precious’s mother, somewhat short of breath, slid into her chair, juggling her handbag, a hand full of change and two overpriced bags of M&Ms. “Are you all right, Precious?”

Precious mumbled something, and Nikita sat back, satisfied. The lights blinked, and Henry loped into the row, giving Nikita a lopsided grin.

************

The orchestra tuned, and Michael, suppressing a proud smile, watched the little scene play out before him. A very subdued Little Precious colored in her book. The music began, and Little Precious put down her colors and attempted to open her candy. Just as she had done all last year -- and, Michael suspected, throughout her entire short life -- the bag exploded, sending a shower of M&Ms on the floor.

Little Precious’s mother bent down to collect the candy, but Nikita turned around in her chair and fixed Little Precious with such a glare that even from his vantage point Michael felt the heat. Little Precious shrank deep into her seat, drawing her legs and up to her chest (no doubt to prevent Nikita from pinching them, Michael thought) and clutched her doll. Nikita slowly turned back around, and Precious relaxed -- not much, but a little. Still gripping her doll, her eyes were riveted on the back of Nikita’s head, and she didn’t move throughout the rest of the performance.

Unable to hide his feelings, Michael let a small chuckle escape. In one evening, Nikita accomplished everything he’d tried to do in a whole season -- put that horrid child in her place without being brought up on battering charges. Ironic, really.

Still grinning, he relaxed as much as he could in the uncomfortable seat and let the music flow around him.

************

Two weeks later, Michael was again in his box, watching the house.

Nikita’s neighbor was already in place, and he kept glancing worriedly at his watch, then at the stage, which was still curtained. Occasionally the curtain billowed outward as an elbow brushed up against it while the orchestra settled in place. Little Precious and her mother arrived, Precious with her doll, her package of candy and, oddly enough, a paper hat that looked like a boat on her head. They sat down and from her voluminous handbag, Little Precious’s mother brought out a coloring book and colors.

The house lights flickered, then lowered. The curtain rose. From the light on the stage, Michael could see Nikita’s empty seat. She was in ... California? New York? He couldn’t remember, but as soon as the music started, his mind untangled, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 flowed over him. With a satisfied sigh, he sat back, eyes dreamily focused on the orchestra.

************

Still pulling on a shoe, Nikita nearly threw her money at the cab driver. She spilled out on to the sidewalk, swaying uncertainly before regaining her balance. Then she zipped up her dress all the way, yanked her shawl up and shoved an errant strand of hair back. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass door, and paused, slowing her breathing. She looked like a crazy woman.

Seemingly calm and collected, Nikita entered the lobby, showed her ticket to the usher and was handed a program. Quietly, they stood just inside the house door, the usher’s flashlight trained on the floor.

“We have to wait till the movement’s over,” he whispered, and Nikita nodded, leaning against the cool plaster wall.

What a day. What an awful, unpredictable day. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, the well-ordered tempo relaxing her. She felt herself melting into the plastered wall, and her mind, which had been spinning out of control all day long, begin to get back into a more natural rhythm. Better then meditation, she thought, and though she hadn’t had any sleep for two days, instead of exhaustion, she felt peace. She sighed, breathed deeply, then opened her eyes, focusing on the orchestra.

The movement ended and the usher led her down the aisle.

************

Below him, Michael watched an usher take a latecomer to his seat. Not a man, Michael realized: it was a woman. A tall woman. Blonde.

He stiffened and sat up straighter. He brought up his binoculars and focused in on her.

Dressed in a loose deep black dress that soaked up whatever light touched it, Nikita followed her usher, absently tucking up a strand of hair. She wore a black lace mantilla draped over her shoulders, and through the lace he could see patches of pale skin left bare from her low backed dress. She smiled at her seat neighbor, gave the child behind her a no-nonsense look, and sat down.

Michael’s box neighbors hadn’t shown up tonight. At first he’d been glad. But as he watched Nikita when the second movement started, he felt an odd sensation in his stomach. She leaned forward a bit, and the black lace shawl slid down her back, leaving her back bare. Absently she pulled the mantilla back up, but as it slid down again, she didn’t notice.

She was completely wrapped up in the music. As the tempo increased, so did her attention. It was almost as if she were having a conversation without words, and Michael realized it was probably the first time she’d heard this piece. For a moment, he wished it were the first time for him too -- he would have given anything to be so affected by Bach.

But to Michael, the strains of music were familiar, an old friend. From where he sat, he could see the left half of Nikita’s face when she leaned forward. The light from the stage only partially lit her face, but all her attention was on the music.

His stomach flip-flopped, and he realized he’d only once seen that particular expression on her face, and it was when they were making love. Suddenly queasy, Michael swallowed hard. Below him, Nikita shifted, resting her chin on her hand, never moving her eyes from the stage, her absorption complete.

What does she see? What does she think about when she listens? Michael would have paid a pretty penny to know.

************

Michael remained seated through the intermission and passed the second half of the concert in contemplation. Occasionally he brought up his binoculars. A quiet internal voice whispered ugly words to him: spy, peeping tom, stalker. I’m not doing anything, he told himself firmly. It’s a public place and a public event. It’s not as if I’m watching her undress.

And that thought brought on a rush of images, most of them X-rated and all of them unsettling.

To Michael’s relief, the concert finally ended. One of the pluses about having a box seat was, he usually exited the hall ahead of the crowd. He had a lower box near a fire exit and most of the time he simply slipped out after the last ovation. But this time, instead of heading for the exit, he pushed through the surging crowd like a fish going upstream.

************

Nikita stood, stretched and smiled at Henry. “That was great. You know, I don’t think I’ve heard anything that I don’t like. Well, maybe I could have done without that water music thing.”

“Not too hip on the atonal stuff, are we?”

“I guess not. I’m so glad I bought a season ticket, though.”

“So’m I,” Henry smiled at her. “Listen, I meant to ask you last time -- are you going to be here for the Christmas program? It’s December 18. They’ll do the Messiah, it’s always lots of fun. The audience gets to sing along at the end.”

“Yeah, if I don’t have to go out of town. Why?”

“Because my wife and I are going skiing for the holidays and we leave that morning. You want my ticket? Maybe you can find someone that’d enjoy it.” He handed her a ticket, and Nikita smiled.

“Great! Thanks, Henry.” Walter might like to come, Nikita thought. Or maybe Gail.

“Who knows, maybe your husband will get the evening off,” he grinned.

“I wouldn’t bet on it --” Nikita said, hitching up her mantilla and tucking back the strand of hair that refused to stay up.

Michael materialized on her left side, so suddenly and quietly that Nikita nearly jumped out of her skin. “What do you think you’re doing with my --” he paused and noticed the wedding band on her hand. “-- wife?”

Henry smiled and held out a hand. “You must be Mr. Samuelle. I’m Henry Martin.”

“Michael Samuelle.” Michael gripped his hand firmly. “So this is the man my wife has been spending so much time with, eh?”

“Now, Michael,” Nikita began, unsure of whether he was joking or not. But why on earth would he care? She wondered. And anyway, what was he doing here? She’d kept her beeper in her hand all evening and it hadn’t gone off. Was he following her? “What brings you here?” Her mouth curved in a smile, but her eyes were suspicious, and Michael purposely let his defenses crumble.

He took her hand, gently caressing her wedding ring, then brought it up to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “You.”

Two can play at this game, Nikita thought. She smiled again, a dazzling quick smile designed to leave men breathless, and gave him a very chaste kiss on the lips -- nothing unseemly, but laden with promises of things to come. Or not. “Take me home, then,” she suggested, and without waiting for an answer, she said, “Good night, Henry. Tell your wife thanks,” and went up the aisle.

She didn’t look back. In a few moments, she felt Michael behind her. Like any good husband would do, he gently guided her through the crowd, his hand lightly at her waist. Nikita calmly pushed through the people milling around, and soon they stood on the curb.

Once outside, Michael’s hand dropped and he stepped away -- there was no reason to carry the pretense any further. Still not speaking, they waited for a cab. Finally, he said quietly, “You play dirty, Nikita.”

Her lips twitched and without rancor, she said, “I had a good teacher.”

“Perhaps.”

A cab pulled up; Nikita let another couple take it, and the wife, an older woman who looked chilled, murmured a thank you. Nikita smiled benignly at her.

“Since when did you start wearing a wedding ring when we aren’t working?” Michael asked softly, moving closer to her so no one would overhear.

Nikita looked down at her finger. The solitaire was large, but not too large; the platinum band was wide, but not too wide. She and Michael picked it up at Tiffany’s last time they were in New York -- the original ring Madeleine gave her was stolen or lost from a Bangladesh hotel room, and Nikita hadn’t realized she was missing it until the next mission she had with Michael. He’d stood by impatiently while she quickly selected something appropriate -- not exactly a romantic shopping trip. At least she knew it was just a ring -- not a transmitter or tracker. She rubbed the band thoughtfully and said, “Mostly I wear it so people don’t hit on me. I get tired of that. I mean, sometimes people still do, but it’s cut down on it a lot.”

“Is that the only reason?”

It was all make-believe in the jewelry store, Nikita remembered. Michael had been polite to the salespeople and appeared to be in love, but she knew differently. He resented wasting the time and most of all he was aggravated that he even had to be present. “Either come or give me your ring so I can match it,” she’d told him, and he’d grudgingly accompanied her. Still, when she’d slid on the wedding band and held her hand next to his to compare, she’d glanced at his face. Something flickered across it. Longing? Sadness? Desire?

Love?

She’d never been sure. In fact, for a few moments, she was certain she’d imagined it. But then, when she slid on both rings, the wedding ring on top of the solitaire, she studied his face carefully. No, she hadn’t imagined it. There was some kind of emotion there -- what, she wasn’t sure, but the fact that he felt something made her feel very gentle towards him. She was grateful for that moment in time -- when Michael was particularly nasty or cold, she replayed it like a home movie in her mind. He may hate me now, she’d think, but at one time, he felt something. Even if I don’t know exactly what, he did feel something for me.

“Nikita?”

She blinked and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Yes?”

“Is there another reason you wear the rings?”

“I just -- I guess I got used to them on my finger,” she said breezily. “If it bothers you, I won’t wear them any more.”

A cab jerked to a stop in front of them, and Michael slowly bent to unlatch the door. “No,” he hesitated. “No ... it doesn’t bother me.” He held the door open and Nikita slid in. He followed her, gave her address to the driver and sat back.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

--End--