Figaro

The concert hall was big and crowded. Well, it was more than that. It was beautiful, it was nearly acoustically perfect, but I didn't examine the gilded gold busts of musicians above the stage too closely. I was too entranced by Her. Her hair was put up in that perfect way that made those few stray curls fall right on her forehead, and she looked beautiful. She was the image of beauty that night.

I think saying I had butterflies in my stomach that night would be a bit of an understatement. I had long passed butterflies, I had a full-force, category five hurricane in my stomach. That feeling you get when you love someone so much it hurts. Maybe I'm being dramatic. Maybe it was just butterflies, but when I remember it now, and when I remember everything it led up too, man, does it seem like hurricanes.

"You know," She started "you didn't have to do this, these are really nice seats."

"Nonsense, it's your birthday."

Smiling, She said, "You know, someone told me, the plot of an opera can never be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible."

In that moment, I caught Her eye, and God almighty, I thought I could belt out the whole Marriage of Figaro right there.