The Opera

She looked at her Kate Spade watch with diamontes shaped into a champagne bottle and registered that she had ten minutes to get ready if she were to be out the door on time. She stood up from her desk, hit alt control delete on her keyboard to lock her computer, then reached for the bag with her change of clothes she had brought into the office that day. It was a deep maroon cotton bag with big floral prints and it had been a giveaway at Loft when she had stopped in for a quick look that turned into a four item purchase thanks to the sale they had on. She had taken the bag hesitantly thinking she likely wouldn’t use it or could give it away, however it had turned out to be one of her most-used.

She raced into the bathroom that was closest to her office to hastily change. Stepping out of her casual Wednesday outfit (after all, casual Friday went out the door after COVID and her office was just grateful anyone came in regardless of what they were wearing) and stepped into a Calvin Klein dress that she had bought on sale at Macy’s years ago. At the time, it was a purchase she had to consider carefully. She was on vacation in New York City and the conversion rate was not strong, which meant that while the sale price was 50% off, the dress at the discounted rate of US$130 was still considerably more expensive than what she would normally give herself approval to spend on an item of clothing. While she appreciated fashion, it was not at the expense of a diminished bank balance. She had worked out the exact conversion rate before realizing tax would also have to be added and had become frustrated at the system which continued to haunt her to this day. ‘Why can’t they just include the tax and tell us the full price’, is what you’ll hear her complain.

The red with black velvet dress sat so perfectly upon her frame that the cost was falling from her mind as quickly as the assistant was trying to make the sale. It fit snugly against her bust and waist before a soft yet structured A-line skirt that made you feel like you could be visiting royalty danced right above her knees. To this day, whenever she wore this dress, it made her feel like she would find herself walking along a red carpet and would belong on it. She pondered at how easily something as simple of fabric on our bodies could make us feel so intimately about ourselves - both good and bad.

She had bought the dress when her hair was much darker and almost black. She wondered if it suited her better back then, instead of how it looked with her hair being the lighter shade she wore it now? While not blonde, it was closer in shade, and as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror she realized she didn’t have time to concern herself with such thoughts. She went back to her office, exchanged her bag of worn clothes for her handbag that sat on her desk and left the building.

She had found a restaurant to meet her husband at before the show. It was only a nine minute walk to the Lincoln Center and with a 4.7 star Google review she had hit reserve on their booking platform. All & Sundry was a small but lively cocktail bar and bistro that required you to leave your credit card when making a reservation in case you didn’t arrive for it. This was her first time going and now she was running ten minutes behind, and her husband 15. She wondered, if they were the kind of place that takes a credit card for a reservation, would they be the kind of place that would make her wait for ‘all parties’ to arrive before seating. Another New York City pet peeve of hers that felt more obnoxious than organized. However, she needn’t have worried because after skipping down the few steps to get inside the street level restaurant and pushing open the white lattice door, the friendly woman in her mid-twenties smiled and let her know it was no problem she had arrived first, and seated her right away.

She was surprised to see almost every seat taken. There was an eclectic mix of folks sipping on cocktails and raising their voices to be heard above the hum of conversations around them. She took a seat on the small round stool at their assigned table, leaving the bench seat across from her for her husband.

She took in the exposed brick walls between the pink wallpaper that adorned green ferns, the white high top tables, the velvet covered stools mixed alongside cast iron and wood, and the black and white art deco tiles that surrounded the bar and lay adjacent the wooden floor boards that brought the decor together. She was impressed at the design and the ambience, one that many tried to pull off in this city but didn’t always deliver. As she turned to continue her people watching, her husband appeared behind her. With a kiss and a smile, he squeezed in between tables to take his seat.

It was happy hour, the best hour to be in a New York bar. They ordered red wine with burgers and fries, and another red wine each. They talked like old friends and held hands across the table like new lovers, while pausing on occasion to eavesdrop on the conversation playing out next to them. Two men were discussing their love lives, with one divulging he had never been so sexually in tune as he was with the woman he was currently seeing. She wondered why it had taken this man who had to have been in his mid-fifties so long to find a compatible partner. Had he spent his NYC youth living out a disturbing NYC motto she had heard too frequently, that for every pretty woman there is in the city, another is right behind her. Did he spend no quality time with those he courted, as time was of the essence? Or had he too been at the mercy of dating in a city that could be cold and calculated and all he had ever wanted was to find ‘the one’?

While she had her grievances about living in the Big Apple, this was not one of them. She loved being exposed to the days of the lives of those who walked these city streets with her. Before the clock struck and the outrageous NYC menu prices resumed, they ordered an espresso martini as dessert.

They called for the check with 20 minutes to spare as they needed to be at the Lincoln Center before 8PM. You can almost always count on your server to support a swift departure, allowing the next guest to take your place, with the hope of another good tip.

They took a left out of the restaurant and turned right onto Columbus, holding hands as they strolled up to 62nd Street and onto the famous steps of the Lincoln Center. These same steps had been lit up with pride colors the night that he had asked her to marry him not quite three years earlier. They stopped to kiss, which had become obligatory every time they passed by, before walking past the Revson Fountain in the plaza toward the Metropolitan Opera House. She looked up at the five concrete arches of glass and bronze and felt in awe of the 96 foot architectural masterpiece. It was a work of art and she was reminded about how lucky she truly was to have such a destination she could take for granted. This was a moment in time reminding her not to.

They joined a line and followed the crowd inside. After shuffling at a slow pace and polite ushers asking people to step forward and to their left, which no one heard as their ears had stopped working once their heads were turned upwards to take in the view, they followed the instructions. With a quick step they found themselves in the wide open space of the second entrance everyone had missed while taking in her enticing exterior.

They showed their tickets on their phone and were prompted to step through into the main foyer so as to allow guests coming from behind the space that was available should one be more aware of their surroundings. But as she stepped further inside, she too became unaware of anything else as she looked up and came to a stop. She took in the grandness of the room and felt like she perfectly belonged in her dress. The red carpet, the sweeping white and gold staircases that felt like they were going to embrace you, the elegance and grandeur and the people. Oh the people. From all walks of life and fashion desires; dressed in jeans and tees, to black ties and high heels; old and and young; everyone and everything in between. It was similar to a Broadway show crowd, but there was something slightly more spectacular. Like the opera was a secret that was also obsessed with being shared. Those who understood it, those who appreciated it, those who were curious about it, those who were accustomed to it like one might be accustomed to their favorite TV show, and those who just wanted to feel it. As they made their way into the theater, she heard a symphony of languages and she wondered how many of the evening's guests were visitors or locals. It was too hard to tell from an accent alone, after all, this is NYC.

They took their seats, P103 and P104, and sat down upon the red velvet chairs. She asked her husband how he had managed to get such great seats, waiting to hear if he had blown the budget. But he reminded her of the deal a colleague from his work had shared, and with a smile, also reminded her she never remembered what he said.

She looked around and raised her chin high to take in the five balconies that wrapped around the three sides of the theater. The chandeliers sparkled and she let her eyes rest upon them a little longer, ignoring that her neck did not like being in that position. An air of anticipation filled the room as the lights were lowered and the audience put their hands together to share their excitement.

As the show started, she saw the woman with tight blonde curls sitting next to her gently moving her hand across the back of the seat in front of her, as if searching for something she could not see. Curious, she watched as she then saw a small screen appear. She too lifted her hand to aimlessly touch whatever lay in front of her, when the woman she had copied kindly leant over and pressed a button that illuminated her screen. She in turn did the same for her husband, and he did the same for the woman to his left. Like one big community coming together, it was a moment in time that would be forgotten the next time they were too busy arguing about their differences. But in this space, this safe and welcoming occasion, they were all on the same team.

Subtitles in English, German, Italian, and Spanish appeared. She felt in awe, and somewhat out of her depth as the soprano's voice flawlessly bellowed and wrapped itself around her. Goosebumps rushed to her skin and her eyes widened and she lost all thoughts other than this one imprinting itself in her mind. For a moment, she was the only one in the room.

Three hours passed in the blink of an eye, and as the crowd got to their feet to applaud the cast of Madam Butterfly, she too lifted her arms high in the air as if this might help the sound of her appreciation carry onto the stage.

As they slowly made their way out of the theater, back into the foyer, and out into the night air, one last time she watched the people she had just spent time with this evening. People she didn’t know and would likely never know. People that she likely had little in common with, but had this night in common. People she was sure she would love to spend more time with. People she would merely love to be a fly on their wall. She was reminded the arts are for everyone. The piece might not always be to your taste, but the experience will never leave you. You will be grateful for that moment in time, and take away your own interpretation and what it meant to you. It made her think, should we start to look at people like art?

The end.