It's been many years since I've sat through a production. The last time that I had was when he was still alive. Nothing can beat the words, the song, the music of a man born to produce such marvels for the very universe. But there are times when others come close. There is still something admiring and impressive about the way humans can to the one place and string together something beautiful or entertaining. Sometimes they are capable of more than that. They can be as revolting, crass and as ugly as the enemy. But I'm not here for that.

No lady should be seen in the public eye, especially going to an Opera House, in anything less than a flattering dress. Its an evening cut, expensive and certainly not purchased from this town. There isn't so much as a plunging neckline as there is an elegant dip. The length of it is nothing like the modern shortness of a little black dress, but is full length in its simple cut. Too many women go for something with too much frills and lace, but such a thing distracts from the wonderful shape of a woman's curves. Needless to say my gown is simple, imported, and stylish. Its the sapphire and diamonds on the delicate gold chain around my neck that is my substitute to dress embroidery and fancy cuts, it nestles at the base of my throat and matches the earrings that dangle softly by the earlobe.

I take pride in my appearance but never quite taking it to the extremes of vanity. My dark hair is plaited and wound across the back of my scalp. Invisible hair pins keep the strands in place, leaving my neck bare. The black lace of the shawl, which is embroidered with faint colours of red and blue, is patterned with a feminine style. It will keep my shoulders warm when I leave.

The production is yet to begin. I have good seats. I've found one can often get good seats when they come alone. Everyone that attends these things come in pairs or groups, leaving the odd seat now and then. Its one of these that I've managed to secure myself. It puts me between strangers, one of which is already sitting nearby. I can smell his cologne from where I sit and I must admit that it's not unpleasant. His wife must be pleased, but I do hope that she stops talking when it all begins. There is nothing worse than whispers to distract from a potentially good stage show.

I wait with my hands clasped over the purse in my lap. Eyes forward, I only shift them to glance at those hustling into their seats. I hope that it begins soon. The ache of his absence is increasing with the acute awareness of lovers in the isles.

It is a rare occassion that Alice ventures to the Opera. She had heard the show was wonderful and even managed to score tickets. She had planned on bringing someone...but she couldn;t find a date last minute and sold her second ticket. Her Jimmy Cho heels click on the concrete as she steps out of her caddy. She passes the vallet her keys, pays the tab and steps inside.
Her dress is elegance in pure simplicity. Silk in a sensual emerald green, drapes over her womanly form as if the dress was poured over her for the perfect fit. Chunky gold chains hold the dress up and act as straps over her smooth alabaster shoulders. The back of the dress dips low down her back and past the small of her back. No tramp stamp back there like some would expect, just lithe muscularity and silky smooth flesh. There is a slit in the dress, coming to her knees to purposely show off those gold, strappy heels and tease you with a glimpse of her legs. You don't have to walk around showing off your goodies to be seductive or a temptress...the brain is the sexiest organ and somethings are better left to the imagination. Her hair is left down in sumptuously soft curls, half pulled back with a gold and emerald hair pin. Glittering emerald and diamond earrings match the hair pin and are obviously the real thing. Around her wrist is a small gold bracelet with the finna glyph enblazened on it. Her make-up is simple, a sweep of shimmery pink, brown eyeliner and thick black lashes. Her full lips are coated in a sheer and shimmery pale pink gloss.

She finds her seat, passing the chatty wife and the heavily scented man. The colonge was not too bad. She had passed a woman in the lobby whose perfume could kill a horse. Alice's perdot colored eyes fals on the lady in black. She admires her dress and especially the pretty stones on her neck. She smiles politely to her, moving to take her seat next to her. She folds her hands in her lap and observes the stage.

When the woman approaches her seat, I tuck an elbow in closer to my side. It leaves the arm free for her to use is she so pleases. These seats aren't cramped and I don't mind giving the other the extra space. I quite value my personal area and never understood the need for overtly physical attentions, at least not unless one is intimately involved with another or in parental situations.

Glancing to her, I take in her gown, jewels, the way in which she styles her hair and make up. The efforts of her smile, the courtesy she offers, is returned with a small nod but no smile. I think the gold chains are too chunky for the smoothness of her dress and certainly seems necessarily thick against her pretty white skin. But that's not why I don't smile. I'm simply not that sort of person. Not here. Not tonight. Rarely, ever. Still, I find some satisfaction, some small pleasure, that there are other women that are proud of their form rather than starving themselves pounds worth of nutritious food. Women were not men, they were meant to have curves and plump softness in the places where men were built hard and strong, with tight and compact lines.  

I'm back to watching the stage, waiting patiently for it to begin.  

--Last edited by Mila on 2008-12-05 05:14:15 --

Alice opens her dainty gree even clutch, frowning slightly as her program was not in there. She stands rather suudenly, looking on the floor and up the way she came. She sighs, sitting back down again.
"Damn programs..." she mutters to herself as her eyes observe the stage. She'll just have to guess about the acts.

I give another glance to the woman as she stands and fusses over lost programs. If it was important she wouldn't have lost it. The mind has a way of prioritizing these things. I'm not inclined to give her my own. Its tucked in plain sight, beneath the purse held in my lap. I don't offer her any words of wisdom or condolences. After the initial glance, and certainly by the time she is sitting again, I'm looking back to the stage. Patient. Reserved. And even some would say, self-absorbed, my demeanor can come across cool and aloof. Its never worried me. Does not, even now. I am here for the Opera and I am determined to enjoy it.

Kara eyes the crowd from the sidelines. It is merely fifteen minutes to curtain and the hustle and bustle backstage is breath taking!

Singers prance to and fro, some shedding behind them a fine mist of Oriental face powder, while others fidget with buttons and collars and lace. Everything will be to perfection once the elaborate curtain rises, it always is. Does anyone expect anything less? Of course not!

She seems to be the only one unmoving, unnerved by this whole she-bang. Standing amidst the mayhem, hand clasped before her, her eyes look ahead, regarding.

Everyone is dressed impeccably, crushed velvets upon finely sculpted male singers in wine-reds and blacks and plums; dainty organza on the females, soft creams and pretty golds that will look amazing against a backdrop of dark.

Her outfit is slightly different, and if one were to look, they may not be positive if she were part of the show or merely a well-dressed eccentric who liked to watch the show from the sidelines.

Body-hugging pewter falls upon pale skin. Her gown looks as something plucked out of a Renaissance fable, a Queen's robes. The collar gently swoops down, showing off fine skin. It cinches in the back with silver-grey velvet ribbons like a corset, and the skirt bellows to the ground, decorated in miniscule, glittery beads. The sleeves end in dramatic points, and trail on to almost three feet. Fragile transparent slippers hide under her hems. Her brown hair has been draw up to her head with ivory and grey combs. A small tiara rests amidst her locks.

She is silent. She is almost invisible.

[bumps thread]  

--Last edited by Mila on 2009-01-14 05:06:21 --

[Alice will be MIA for a while. Her computer died a week or so back and I have no idea when she will be returning. Feel free to move this along without her if you want to.]