Page 68 of True Colors

“Tonight, it is,” I say.

Once we’re seated, she leans onto the low railing, edged in brass dulled by time. From here, the orchestra pit is visible in perfect clarity—the musicians tuning, bows lifted, breath held.

The stage feels close enough to touch.

“This place is old,” she murmurs. “What must it have been like a hundred years ago?”

“Opening night.” I take her hand in mine. “Men in tuxedos and women in silk gloves. Industrialists. Politicians. The kind of people who thought opera proved something about who they were.”

She smiles faintly. “And now?”

“Now”—I bring her hand to my lips, kiss her skin softly—"this is for us.”

Her eyes soften at that.

The strings warm up; the brass hums; the lights dim.

“This is so b-beautiful,” she whispers.

I lean close. “So are you.”

The music swells.

The curtain rises.

She watches the performance with a reverence that makes me watch her instead.

When the soprano sings Sempre libera, Anouk closes her eyes, lips parted, as if she’s absorbing every note through her skin.

“She’s amazing,” she whispers.

“So are you,” I whisper back.

She blushes.

We step into the lobby during the first intermission for champagne and light bites in the Patrons’ Lounge with its tall marble columns and gold-trimmed mirrors that reflect the chandeliers.

Servers move smoothly through the crowd with trays of champagne flutes, sparkling water, and hors d'oeuvres with foie gras and caviar.

Men in dark suits and women in evening dresses cluster in familiar constellations, catching up, trading observations about the performance, already dissecting the soprano’s phrasing or the conductor’s tempo. It’s social and ceremonial at the same time—less about indulgence, more about tradition.

Anouk stays close to me, taking it all in with immense curiosity, her fingers brushing my sleeve now and then. It’s a subconscious gesture, and yet it tells me she trusts me, and that excites me.

I hand her a glass of champagne. “Here you go.”

She takes the glass and sips. “This is how royalty gets treated, right?” There’s humor in her tone mixed in with awe.

“I wanted your first opera experience to be amazing.”

“It is.” She goes on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. It’s unguarded, unplanned, and beautiful.

If people weren’t going to call my mother to tell her about my date before, they certainly were going to now, after that kiss. And if they were going to anyway, might as well….

I put my hand on her waist and pull her close. “What was that for?”

“Th-thank you?”

“Thank me properly, my starling.”