Of Assassination and Murder - part 2

[Aurora]

He watched her move. He'd give her this. She was graceful despite her pedestrian clothing. And she wanted to play. A smile tugged on his lips as he watched her oh-so-carefully take one single solitary sip. There was a deliberateness to it, as if she suspected it was laced with something and she was willingly taking that chance. It almost made him wish that he had put a little something there. That moment of recognition through the fog was sometimes so very exhilarating.

She liked dangerous games. Her emerald green eyes were deep and still as she offered her name and hand in the same moment. He savored the sound. By now, the warmth and relaxation of the champagne coursed through him, both soothing and lighting afire his senses. "Aria"
he repeated, as if tasting it on his tongue for the first time. Somehow it fit.

He smiled at her, allowing the word to explode in his mind. An aria was more than just a song. It was a single solo expressive piece of music. Its power and emotion stemmed not from the music itself but from the soul of the one singing it. It was an emotional outflinging of a soul out into the audience, airily dancing above the crowd, fluttering about like a little bird, winging its way through ones body and deep into the heart.

It was a full throated cry, a singing scream, a screaming song. The flame flickered at the momentary gust, nearly guttered and extinguished itself and he calmed himself, allowed his heart to calm for just a moment. Too fast. It was too fast. He wanted this to last.

He looked at her hand but did not touch it. As if to distract her he spoke to his auto-attendant and selected Bizet's Je crois entendre encore from Les pêcheurs de perles. The aria was haunting and powerful, the voice displaying male and female notes, a pining for love, for hope, for the opportunity to find what it has been seeking.

The final verses played out, leaving him with that familiar sense of incompleteness. Did he ever find it? The song never gave the answer, nor did the opera itself. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I am sorry. Your name. It reminded me of a song."