Faxon stood outside the back door to the theatre, leaning against the brick wall of the next building. His cane was held loosely in his right hand, the polished mahogany shining slightly in the lamp light. He somehow looked younger in this posture (although he was well into his thirties) with his head leaning back against the cool wall he looked more boyish. His sandy hair was combed neatly, and instead of his usual well tailored suit he was wearing worn jeans, a white shirt, and a dark blue pinstripe blazer. His thin frame was still as the back door to the theater opened and the actors began filling out, he gently pushed off the wall and stood, giving each of them a nod.

They didn't seem to regard him as a threat, because they simply nodded back and kept walking. The production had been excellent, he had to admit, and he was eager for one of the actors to come out. He had not seen her for seven years, and the adrenaline was now running through his blood as he awaited with baited breath.

He had never had an explanation after she had left, and he hadn't met anyone else after. So he stood in the shadows and waited.

(( reserved for Napoleon ))

"Ta Marco! I will see you tomorrow!" The words were spoken by a light and airy voice, one which was clearly used to being projected across great amounts of space without growing into a yell. The young woman it belonged to suddenly emerged from the back door with the click of a new pair of heels and the wafting scent of apples and lilies. Evelyn Kingsley's made-up features looked young, nearing the mark of twenty-four rather than the thirty they were supposed to resemble. In her mind as well as in her heart, she had never been thirty and would never be thirty.

The blonde, for she had once again dyed her hair, raised her eyes towards the darkened sky above and inhaled deeply. A pleasant smile crept across her face revealing clean, off-white and somewhat straight teeth. Her thoughts were reviewing her performance earlier that evening, critizising every line, every movement as well as everything her supporting actors had done. In her true, cynical and bitter mind, she felt it had all gone horribly. Though some locked boxes are impenetrable and lack a key, so who was to know the truth within?

Eve straightened her knee-length, summer dress. It's red-on-white print reminiscent of something found on a set of delicate china. She fixed her purse on her shoulder and started, at a slow and leisurely pace, towards the front of the theatre, not even the slightest bit aware of the past coming back to haunt...

Faxon watched as Eve came out of the theater...And then continued walking. His feet began taking hasty steps toward the actress, but he soon stopped himself. Faxon was always known to be level-headed and logical about most situations in his life...He wasn't a risk taker. Yet he had come down to the theater expressly to find this woman. The woman who had so thoroughly broken him. He was like a ceramic plate, broken but then put back together. The plate looked fine at first glance, but if one spent enough time inspecting, you could see small hairline fractures.

He hesitated.

Taking up his cane he began walking, only slower, taking all his time to think about exactly what could happen if she turned around. His mind began flashing with old memories of them together... A small but warm apartment, soft words and complete and utter appreciation on his part. He loved her. His cane made the usual tap-tap it was prone too, giving his presence away to anyone who was paying attention.

Overcome with a sensation of another loss, he suddenly burst out. "Evelyn!" he said, letting his voice carry to the well-dressed woman. Somehow he felt a sense of irony. He hadn't seen her walk away the last time she had left him.