A shy reference librarian, and a college student who was disowned when she refused to submit to conversion therapy, meet in a bookstore. He's been waiting his whole life for her. Meanwhile, she's starting her whole life over. What ensues between the...
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"Happy birthday," he says, and hands out a small box.
Oh, dear.
Inside is an opal pendant set in white gold, on a matching chain.
"It looked like it would go well with your earrings. Don't worry, it didn't set me back too much."
I love opals, especially fire opals like this one. "It's beautiful," I sigh. I shouldn't fret so much; he's right, if the necklace only cost as much as my Christmas earrings, which seems a reasonable assumption, the symphony tickets cost more than the earrings and necklace combined. Semiprecious stones are not generally very expensive. "Would you like to put it on me?"
"That's a very loaded question. And yes. I would."
When he fastens the clasp, tightening the short chain, the pendant barely brushes the hollow in my collarbone.
The longing look he has on his face pierces me to the core.
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We sit side by side, hands clasped, under a ceiling of gold, watching a lit screen above the orchestra and singers display an English translation of Wagner's German lyrics as we listen to the performance. The lovers have just drunk wine that has been adulterated with a love potion – a potion that was supposed to have brought instant death, except that Isolde's maidservant, Brangaene, substituted a love potion for the poison at the last minute.
Isolde! Tristan!
Escaped from the world,
I have claimed you!
Supreme joy of love,
Now I am yours, I only know you!
Our hands squeeze. Yes, this is something we know very, very well.
The chorus of sailors chants in rhythm as they unfurl the sail and bring out the oars; the steady pulse of song that is the beating of oars against water is the rhythm of our hearts beating as one.
