OPERA HOUSE ( A short story )

𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑨 𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬

Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48OwuWlGtO6pIqUTydJopm?si=uFy0YyMJTIqN6CS1ZhJWLA

January 1911

When Lady Marshall destroyed my family, I thought nothing positive would come of it; but, as it turned out, that was the beginning of one of the best things that ever happened to me. Lady Marshall, the apparent mistress of my father, the ruin of my family's reputation. After what was an apparent tragedy, I could no longer handle staying within my family home. Upon this conclusion, my closest friend Martin produced a plan for an excursion. It has now been six months of travel and we have seen most of Europe. Our last stop before journeying back to London is the city of love, Paris. At the moment I lay comfortably in my single bed, the sun shining through the curtain covered windows. I reminisce on the wonderful memories I have made with Martin while on this trip. Slowly, I begin to get up from the bed. My steps are small as I walk towards the square window. Peeling open the maroon curtains I take in the breath-taking view of Paris. The view from the apartments, in which I reside in, is one beyond the description of words. A sigh leaves my lips, one cannot think of a more peaceful moment than waking up this way. The Palais Garnier comes into view, and I am reminded that my friend and I, though awfully expensive, have purchased a ticket to watch their production of Swan Lake. Due to this I must make haste in leaving my apartment to meet up with him for breakfast. I quickly walk over to my wardrobe and pick out a simple yet elegant outfit of gray slacks, a white button up with puffy sleeves, and a detailed red vest. I finish getting ready, quickly checking the time I realize that I am now running ten minutes late, so I rush out the door and down the spiral staircase.

Martin is waiting by the door when I exit. He, too, is wearing gray slacks but he has paired them with a black button up, a green vest, and a long black coat.

"You should learn to be more punctual Atlas" he tells me, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on.

I laugh at his words before stating, "You, my dear friend, are usually the one who runs late."

He simply shakes his head and begins to walk towards the city. I follow next to him, enjoying the sights that we come across. The city, much like its people, is beautiful. The walk to the restaurant is not far and if it was then I was too mesmerized to notice. It is a quaint little restaurant; the outside is a vibrant red with metal tables in front of its windows. Sitting at one of the tables a waiter comes to hand us some menus to look at. My eyes scan through the words describing a variety of foods before landing on a garlic quiche. Martin orders some French onion soup wanting to keep it simple. We converse about the trip and how much joy it has brought us. Paris is known as the city of love but me and Martin have not been fortunate enough to experience love. We planned to come here for the sole purpose of having some fun before we go back to college. At the age of twenty and one we have seen many different cities from Vienna to Edinburgh but for some unknown reason, Paris feels different from the others in a way that I cannot comprehend. Martin looks up and sees me lost in thought.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he questions.

"I only wonder if there is something to gain from these trips...besides the experience, of course" I say, eyes drifting off into the distance.

He seems to ponder in the question. This was the last trip in our excursion, and I had only questioned everything up until now.

"I do not know. What more could we possibly want?" he responds, adding in yet another question.

This one entertains my thoughts. What could we want? We practically have the entire world at this point, what else is there to want?