Burgundy

Jonathan wept at the final scene when Tosca hurled herself over the edge of the building. The audience at the Paris l’Opera stood to attention as soon as the curtain came down, offering rousing applause to the singers. Five curtain calls – Jonathan thought, it could have easily gone to ten or twelve.

Nothing compared to Tosca at the l’Opera, sitting in the burgundy velour seats with gold trim, looking up at the rows and rows of balconies, the deep red curtains that draped the stage. The crystal chandeliers that descended from the ceiling, a maze of tapestries, harkened to a time more real than these years of smartphones, texting, and tweeting – when had life become so trivial?

He moved out into the aisle, a strange thrill of depressed anticipation careening through his body. He bumped into this gentleman, he Je m’excused himself to that lady, he stepped ever forward to the grand lobby of the Paris l’Opera. His heart began to race, his hands became clammy, for he knew the time had come. The time had come to exact his judgment, his final judgment –

Once he got outside, he hailed a Peugeot taxicab. “51 Rue de la Marchez, s’il vous plait.”

Martin would be waiting for him, as he always had been. But instead of feasting on her body, losing themselves in the passion of skin on skin, tongue on tongue, their bodies becoming one conjoined tremor after another – tonight, it would end very differently for Martin. And then Jonathan would be free of him.

Jonathan’s pulse beat loud in his head. He had arrived. The taxicab had reached 51 Rue de la Marchez. The light to Martin’s bedroom remained on. The rest of the house lay in darkness.