The opera curtain's red matched the velvet of her dress, and I could not help but admire the pearls that sat demurely by the nape of her neck, where her hair was gathered into some sort of bun-thing that she had a fancy name for.
Never had the soprano's voice sounded so fine, as Violetta sang of parties and passion, spilling her notes like fine wine, and I felt like the evening was a merlot that I was sipping, slowly, one stolen caress at a time, facing the repudiating glances of the people sitting next to us, as my fingers crawled up her thigh, while Violetta continued to bemoan the fate of one in love, and I pondered which bar we would go to afterward, and pictured her fallng, naked, into the silken sheets of our hotel - even better, falling naked with Violetta, played tonight by a sumptious blonde - an unconventional choice, I am sure, though I don't know much about opera.
That was always Debra's passion, not mine. Debra had many passions - poetry, art, human rights - or were they hobbies? The lines seemed to blur, as Sunday afternoons became taken up with rallies and poetry readings. "Don't you have anything you care about?", she had asked, me, shortly after our second date, but I didn't - or at least, not the way she did, her head thrown back, hair bobbing up and down her neck as she shook her head with excitement, eyes glistening, looking the way skin does when its covered in after-sex sweat. "You have enough passion for both of us", I often said, but she would just shake her head and go back to making French toast or folding the laundry.
That night, on the way out of the opera, hands entwined, standing on a maroon carpet beneath a chandelier that glittered like the moonlight, I felt a palm on the back of my shoulder. I turned around, only to feel a blonde girl with green eyes wedge herself in the space between us, to see her kiss my girlfriend passionately on the lips, and I was close enough to touch her thighs.
"Carry, darling! It's been ages - you must join Mitch and me for drinks. It's ok Mitch, isn't it?" I was too shocked to say no, really, even as I saw the naked silk sheets dream being delayed, right in front of me. Debra had never mentioned a lesbian past. As she and Carry chatted like a pair to teenage girls, I numbly followed, trying to recollect - ah, she had mentioned a college friend, Carry. Of course, I had made out with some of my college friends - but they had all been of the opposite gender.
The bar was dark, and reminded me of the speak-easys from old movies. I half-expected to be served by men in white tuxedos, with finely polished shoes. Instead, the waiters seemed to be bored college students, trying to get by. That's what happens when you go to a bar near NYU, I suppose.
Somewhere near the second round of vodka martinis, I stopped trying to follow the conversation. I was vaguely aware of laughing, and could see Debra's hair falling loose around her face. "Kiss me", she said, and I did.
I must have been pretty drunk by the time the three of us ended up in our hotel room. I remember seeing them, arm against arm, breast against breast, followed by a vague impression of bodies hauling up against my own.
When I woke up the next morning, I was on my own. I stumbled to the dresser, trying to ignore the pounding headache that was taking over my body. I squinted at the note: "Breakfast with Carry. You're very drunk. Order coffee. Love, Deb."
So I did, and sipped my way back into sanity, followed by a shower that was refreshing in that special way that only hotel showers can be - maybe because you know each second of water is part of the hundred dollars you are paying for a room. Humans value things that they are told are valued - and what other way to tell you your shower is valued than to make you pay a hundred dollars night for it?
I was still lying in bed, naked, watching some TV, when Debra came back. "Good morning darling", she said brightly. I grumbled. She came to me and kissed me on the cheek. "Why are you so cross? It's what you wanted, isn't it - you've been fantasizing about it for ages." I shrugged. She shrugged. "I am going to change. Then I thought maybe we could go out for lunch and do some shopping - I want to blow my next paycheck at Bloomingdale's." I could hear her rumbling around in the closet-cum-changing room that seemed to be a bourgeois hotel staple, and wondered if once this ingenious invention had operated to protect the privacy of chaste women, or whether it had once been used by prostitutes unwilling to show their post-coital breasts to the shopkeeper who didn't have the extra cash.
"What happened to Carry?" I asked. "Oh, she went back to work." I could hear the comb stubbornly making its way down her brown curls. "How come you never told me you had a girlfriend?" "Oh, you know." "No, I don't." "Well, I didn't want you to think I was gay." She stepped out of the closet, looking like a cut-out from a fashion magazine, in a zig-zag striped tunic thrown over black leggings with studded high-heel boots. Her hair was artfully thrown over one side of her face, and she wore dangly earrings. "God, you're beautiful", I said. "I might be beautiful, but I'm not God." She giggled. "What do you say we ditch the afternoon shopping?" I asked, stretching out lazily on the bed. She pouted. "But we're in New York only for the weekend, and sex - sex is something you can do anywhere." I frowned. "That is the worst attitude towards sex I've ever heard", I said, "in that case, why have sex anywhere? There is always something unique about the place you're in the you could be doing instead." She sighed. "God Mitchie, sometimes you're so provincial." "I hate it when you call me that. I've told you - my mother calls me Mitchie." She rolled her eyes. "Let's just can this discussion, ok?' she asked, but I shook my head. "No, I'm tired of canning things - I don't beleive in throwing problems in relationships down the metaphorical toilet", I said. She laughed. "Oh, so now our relationship has problems, does it?" "Why does everything have to be so melodramatic?" I asked. "Well, I am going shopping. If you feel like apologizing, you know where to find me", she said, as she stormed out, cluthing her Coach handbag.
For a second, I considered going after her. Then I realized it wasn't worth the effort of getting dressed. I turned the TV on and tried to catch some football. Maybe that is what I should have answered long ago - "Don't you have anything you care about?". "Yes, sex and football.". So I sipped the game like a fine wine, to take off the taste of last night's merlot that had turned into vinegar.
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