She paced in the lobby, irritated that he was late. Among the bobbing heads, she spotted him. She suddenly realized she was underdressed. His tie was perfectly straight, his lapels velvet. They took their seats as the lights dimmed and the curtain raised. She felt the clamminess of his hand, his sausage fingers gripping slightly too hard.
She had always wanted to be someone who cried at the opera. She knew she never could be.
She had always wanted to be someone who cried at the opera. She knew she never could be.
