A Night at the Opera
On the first anniversary of dating
She’s been ready for hours.
I was trying to be a thoughtful lover, a better friend, and not just another. I could have told a story, anything, been convincing, but, well, it would have been a story. It’s a little after eight. I’m still writing in my study when I receive her text. The previous text read: I’m at the hair salon, don’t be late. I have a new dress.
This latest text reads: Where are you? The Opera begins in an hour.
I’m a misfit in a suit, scrubbed to reasonable untidiness, arriving an hour late to pick my date up, and then a frustratingly slow drive down Van Ness to the Opera House in San Francisco. We didn’t talk on the way. On a warm September evening, my shoes were too tight, I wore a poorly tied bowtie, and I needed to keep my jacket on because of my sweating armpits. My girlfriend’s name is Jenny. She’s wearing an elegant little black number, hair coiffured for a special night attending an opening night at the San Francisco Opera, then dinner at Top of the Mark, champagne, candles, and a window seat overlooking the city.
It’s our first dating anniversary.
I’m hardly knowledgeable about Opera and think it is not very interesting.
Jenny is sophisticated. (I know, why is she with me?)
Driving along Van Ness, I wonder where the story I’m writing in my head must go and try to forget the anger flaming behind Jenny’s eyes when I entered her home in Sausalito. She stood barefoot, in a pretty black dress, and asked: Am I wrong, Harry? Is this a real relationship? Or am I a character called Jenny in yet another of your stories? The same Jenny you’ve confessed to love since the day you met me!
I didn’t say a word, knowing her anger would surely erupt. What is it with you, Harry?
There are no words. I want to work it out, get it right, try to listen, remember dates, movie nights, anniversaries, but I forget…and I can’t find the time in these fragile years to remember what I’ve forgotten. I never sleep well at night, convincing myself there must be a place where writers with restless hearts go.
I have a headache, Jenny complains, brought on by something…she adds, slipping her feet into a pair of beautiful Jimmy Choo heels. I know the word something means someone…yes, me.
We take our seats two minutes before the orchestra strikes up, hardly comfortable, having no time for a cocktail and arguing with a female usher who insists on putting us in seats other than those paid for to avoid disturbing people in their seats. I ignore her demand and head down the aisle, pulling on Jenny’s hand, and disturb a dozen people as the curtain lifts. Sitting together, the heat of Jenny’s anger adds to my discomfort. I lean my head sideways and speak to her ear. It’s a beautiful dress. Stunning. A shoosh from behind straightens me up. Fuck it. Stupid Opera, anyway.
During the interval, Jenny is cross and abrupt. I finish my cocktail and go for a second. Jenny hasn’t sipped hers. The bell sounded. You don’t have time, she says. In my head, I’m thinking I could knock it back here at the bar and still be good, but I feel that’s a ledge I don’t need to jump off.
It is an evening when the fates have conspired to let us down.
When saddened by my ineptitude, I pack my mind with every decent memory worth carrying, those to get me through this ruined velvet September night…seeing a seabird wheeling in my mind’s eye… drifting out of sight… feeling the wind, punished by the waves breaking upon the shore. But I’m here in San Francisco, not watching the fishing boats sail beyond the harbour walls.
When the curtain drops, we join with the wealthy throng of San Francisco. Do you recall where we parked the car? I asked, surging through the milling of operagoers.
Jenny’s response is icy with winter’s chill. We are illegally parked on Hayes Street, she said. Please get a cab; my feet hurt. When we arrived, the car was booted. I asked the cab driver to take us to The Mark Hopkins Hotel.
Jenny suggests just taking her home. I want to empty my heart in exchange for her forgiveness. The night is still young, so let’s have a bite to eat and let our hair down.
I could write a whole paragraph about her next breath.
We arrive at the Top of the Mark; our table is ready. Jenny slips her shoes under the table and stares across the Bay. I reach my hand out to rest on hers. She doesn’t withdraw. I watch for a facial reaction. There is none. I feel as if I started the relationship as her project, quieting me where others could not, giving up on it, and she was the only one who could save the day.
Jenny is the girl in the playground who gives herself the moral authority to chastise other children for using foul language. Men in her past life, maybe they smoked or used drugs, but she evolved from that sadness with two children. Looking at her beauty, the high cheekbones, lashes, and eyes reflecting the sparkle of the city, I wondered if she thought she had got into another heartbreaking thing. To end up in love, to pull someone apart, to find fault, and to call names.
When she turns to face me, her mouth is relaxed, almost smiling, her eyes less sad. We should stay the night. You must come back to the city for your car anyway. She says, I wonder how often they boot a Maclaren, and she smiles.
How sad San Francisco can be, men lying on paving stones, women walking the streets. On this forgettable anniversary evening, the melody of Jenny’s words soars like a seagull when she says: Let’s leave, find a little street café, and find the love we once found there.
We entered a store at eleven in the evening and bought trainers, throwing our shoes into the bag. We find the little café on Polk Street.
How happy San Francisco can be.
We kissed on the street, laughing at ourselves, letting our bodies get closer.
I’ll be mad at you every other day, Harry.
It remains in the air
Too lovely to bare
Never losing the love
We discovered there
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