Operatic

I've been an opera fan ever since I was a kid, and when I moved to San Francisco it was easy to indulge. They offered ten or twelve different operas every season, with cheap seats or standing room that even a starving student like myself could afford.

Being a poor but hot young thing, I also had the occasional daydream of somebody rich and successful dragging me away from all this. I'd come pretty close: John, the company president, had offered me a position as his live-in gardener. It was tempting: a mansion, a salary, a rich boyfriend. And he couldn't have been more generous, buying me watches, shoes, and clothes. Unfortunately, the first time we slept together he gave me a slightly more irritating gift.

Michael was another. Though he'd gotten millions when his ex passed away, he wasn't quite as generous as John. Our first date was at Red Lobster. He drove an old Ford. On our first weekend away he booked a B&B where our bathroom was down the hall. Call me crazy, but it's hard to be romantic when you have to wait in line to clean up after sex.

I'd have gone to the opera anyway, but every time I got near the building the thought popped up in my head: would some sexy senior finally snap me up? Would I have to call school and tell them -- not quite tearfully -- that I wouldn't be returning any time soon? When David queued up in line behind me, I hoped that day had finally come.

David was tall, beautifully dressed, and had a dimple in his chin big enough to hide Jimmy Hoffa. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit with a white shirt open low enough to expose a sexy splodge of chest hair. When I got to the front of the line, he followed me to the window, and after changing my order from one to two and standing room to front orchestra, he gave the clerk a black American Express.

"Au revoir," he said to me, and as butterflies fluttered in my stomach I knew eight o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

Classes kept me away until late, and when I finally arrived he was sprawled out like he owned the place. Sparks flew. "You're awfully young to be an opera fan," he said, moving in close enough for me to smell cologne that cost more than my education.

"I've liked it ever since I was small," I said.

He looked me up and down, but mostly down. "That must have been a long time ago."

The overture started and I took my seat. We exchanged surreptitious glances throughout the first act. He was attentive and quite affectionate, I realized, as his hand wandered over to warm my knee. I couldn't wait for intermission so I could see him face to face again.

"So, who are your favorite composers?" he asked after everyone else had filed out to stretch their legs.

"Oh, I like a million of them, but I think Wagner is probably the best."

He laughed, but it was so robust and manly it didn't matter that he was laughing at me. "VOG-ner," he said. "Not Wag-ner. In German, W is pronounced as V. Who else?"

"The French pieces are so romantic. Bizet, Berlioz, Massenet. Don Quixote is great."

"Key-shoat," he instructed. "The book and the musical are Key-Yoe-Tee, since they're in English, but obviously the opera is in French. What else?"

I ran through my favorites in my head. There was absolutely no way: Ariadne auf Naxos, Der Rosenkavalier, Daphnis et Chloe, Les Pecheurs des Perles. I decided to stick to English. "I heard an amazing piece on the radio the other day. Schoenberg's Gurrelieder."

When he looked at me like I was kidding I figured I'd mispronounced it slightly. But when he laughed loud enough to get the conductor staring at us, I figured I'd done worse than that.

"Yes, that's a nice piece," David said, once he'd resumed the power of speech. "Any more?"

"Puccini," I simply said.

He chuckled again. "Noel Coward once said, 'Never underestimate the power of cheap music.'"

As I glanced over at him and pictured his moustache sliding down my stomach, I could think of a thousand other, less-prickly subjects we could have shared. But no, we had to talk about opera. I swung the conversation over to him, and he grabbed hold of it and shook it to death. His tongue danced and leapt over all the odd words, trilling and rolling every letter. I tried to distract myself by picturing his moustache pressed against me, but when the lights went down and he finally shut up it wasn't a moment too soon.

When the opera ended, David leapt to his feet. Well, he's enthusiastic, I thought, as the memory of intermission faded. And for a guy in his forties, he's in terrific shape. "Bravo!" he yelled. "Bravo!" Then "Brava!" and "Bravi!"

He turned back to see me staring at him, picturing his pants sliding off and his hard muscles pressed against mine. "One yells 'Bravo' at a male performer," he explained. "'Brava' at a female, and 'Bravi' at a group of two or more."

The opera house was a fit setting for us: two doomed lovers applauding two other doomed lovers. I took one last look, snapping a mental picture of what might have been, then I darted toward the aisle.

"Adios," I said, a foreign word I was secure with. And then "Adias" and "Adius," just to cover all the bases.