Erik's Face, Part One

After rehearsal, Christine Daae timidly tapped Meg on the shoulder. As it was too soft, Meg did not respond, so Christine tapped harder, startling her friend.
“Ah! Don’t scare me like that. What do you want?” squealed Meg.
“Could…could you draw me something?” asked Christine in that quiet voice of hers, so different than when she sang.
“Sure. But why are you whispering?”
“It’s…um, special.”
Meg twitched an eyebrow. “Ohhh-kay. Let’s go over here…”
She led Christine to a quiet hallway backstage and set her on a bench; she scurried off and returned, bearing her meager artist supplies. “I’m not that good, you know,” she said.
Meg sat down. Christine, for some reason, appeared anxious. “So, what do you want me to draw?”
“A man,” Christine mumbled.
“Ooh! A man! Do I know him?”
A pause. “No.”
“Well, you’ll have to describe him to me then.” Meg’s pencil hovered over her sketch pad. “Well?”
At this, Christine folded her hands nervously; rather than a simple series of questions, she seemed to treat it as an interrogation. “He’s…not that young, but he still looks handsome,” she said.
“Around thirty?”
“Thirty, forty perhaps.”
She likes them older, does she? thought Meg, stifling a snicker. “Broad or sharp features?” she asked.
“Sharp.”
Sketch, sketch. “Hair?”
“Dark, kind of long.”
“Ooh.” Meg continued to scribble, with Christine, in a manner most different from other girls, not looking over her shoulder. “I’m not good with ears,” giggled Meg. “I’ll just cover it with his hair.” As she continued to draw, she remembered something. “What kind of nose does he have?”
Christine turned pale. “Ah…it’s…”
Meg laughed. “You don’t know? How can you look at someone and not see their nose?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Ah, so that’s what it is. I’ll just make one up then. One that looks handsome.”
Slowly, Christine nodded. What a strange girl.
More scribbling. Abruptly Christine said, “He doesn’t have a beard.”
“It’s not a beard! It’s the shading, see? I’m not too good at shading.”
“The way you say it, you’d think you weren’t an artist at all.”
Meg laughed. “Of course not! I’m a dancer.”
The portrait took shape, each loose stroke of the pencil adding to its dimension. Finally Meg asked, “What about his expression? Mysterious, stern, anything?”
Christine was silent.
“Christine?”
“Thoughtful,” said Christine, choking almost.
Soon Meg finished the portrait. “There. Well, he almost looks like a real person, doesn’t he?” She passed it to Christine. “What do you think?”
Christine swallowed, said “It’s fine.”
Meg put the drawing in Christine’s hands, since the latter didn’t seem inclined to move. “What’s his name?”
Shuddering, Christine stood. Instead of answering, she turned away from Meg, said “Thank you,” and left, not looking back.
Meg shrugged. What a strange girl.

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Continued at [link]

(this almost counts as prose, doesn't it?)