opera evening
Opera evening.
It was winter when I came home, having been in Spain for twenty years; cold and snow, and I wore sandals; I asked my mother for woolen socks, but she wouldn’t give me any since I didn’t live here anymore. My sister, who was there too, agreed. Having no home, I went to the cinema to see Casablanca, got lost, and walked through a maze of empty streets where everyone sat indoors watching TV; I could tell by the flickering blue light on the curtains. When I finally got there, it was an opera house and a premiere, with plenty of horse-drawn carriages outside, where the famous were being photographed and interviewed by a sycophantic, yet resentful, press that hoped the horses would bolt. “ I’m an opera lover,” I said, and sang an aria from Madam Butterfly, but they still wouldn’t let me in, the sandals you see. So I walked back home, only it wasn’t there anymore; it had been turned into a parking lot. It served me right for being away too long.
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