Feb. 19th, 2003

decadent_david: (Glancing)
Opera... how utterly boring. Call it what it really is - caterwauling with a nice backdrop and gaudy clothes. I fidget in my seat and yearn for the finale. When Lily squeezes my hand and laughs with delight, I stifle a yawn, pat her hand, and give her a warm smile. It’s my own fault, really, I did ask her to tell me her fondest wish for an evening out. She’s never seen an opera. Ah, Lily, wait until you’ve seen a hundred of them, and they all start to sound alike.

But then, that’s not likely to happen to you, is it? So, enjoy yourself, my sweet, and keep the memory to help pass the time working your factory shift. And I hope you do not forget the kind gentleman who endured this evening of torture for your sake, and that you intend to show him a bit of kindness later tonight.

I sneak a glance at my pocketwatch, sigh, and sweep my eyes over the audience. Not far away I spy a handsome young man openly draped on another gentleman, laughing. It reminds me how far removed I am from Long Island. Anything more than a firm handshake or clap on the shoulder among my friends would have been cause for alarm. But, this is Paris, this is completely acceptable behaviour here. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to such sights.

Finally, mercifully, the final aria ends, and soon we are back on the boulevard. I desperately need a drink, and she needs champagne. I lead her towards La Jarretière Verte, whistling an old drinking song to help push the opera from my mind…


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August 2003

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