Beauty and the Beast

Das Theatre

They have chosen the back row of seats for a reason. Public displays of affection are frowned upon; everyone knows who she is, anyway. She told her father she would be going to the theatre with a group of her girlfriends, not sneaking away for a rendezvous with the man she loves that includes a trip to the theatre.
They sit so close to each other that they are literally in each other's laps. She straightens his tie; he sweeps loose strands of hair away from her face.
The opera is playing a piece from one of his father's operas: "Reinhard's Crime." She eyes him almost conspiratorially; he shakes his head in mock denial, the corners of his lips twitching in a smile.
She leans her head on his shoulder, staring up at him, her eyes bright with affection. That she could ever be capable of feeling so strongly for one person blindsides her. She studies his profile, the noble, angular nose, the full lips she had kissed so many times, the high forehead. His blue eyes, in which she had literally seen the whole world open up in front of her whenever she looked into them, now glued to the stage.
She felt an overwhelming instinct to protect him. He had told her under cover of darkness and the impregnable fortress that was the heavy comforter they snuggled beneath at night, how he was continuously and constantly teased for supposedly being Jewish, for supposedly having Jewish blood in him. She had switched the lamp on the moment she heard his voice crack, and saw that his cheeks were wet with silent tears. The sight alone broke her heart. She had taken his face in her hands and kissed his tears away.
"You're not a Jew," she had said against his mouth. "And even if you are a Jew, you're my Jew."
"I don't want to be a Jew at all," he had said, although she could feel him smiling.
"You're not a Jew," was her reply. "You're not good with money. You don't have a beard or long hair. And most importantly, you don't have horns."
They had shared a good laugh over that last remark. She looks at him now, clearly caught up by all the music, and twines her fingers with his.
He belongs to her. Not to his mother, not to his father. Her cousin had always told her that once a man slept with you, you were his and he was yours forever. She was glad for that. She would never have wanted to belong to anyone else.
They would get married soon, she thought, in the most lavish ceremony anyone will have ever seen. Her father, she knew, would do anything to ensure the opulence his daughter's wedding remained unrivaled for years to come.
They would go on a honeymoon to a distant island. They would stay indoors all day and make love to each other, feed each other oranges. She would read the trashy romance novels he so enjoyed over his shoulder, and he would brush her mussed up hair in turn. She loved it when he brushed her hair—the feel of his body inches away from hers, his hands on her head, one hand holding her steady, the other guiding the brush.
He would braid her hair sometimes, as he had done when he came by her house earlier. They had stood in the foyer before the full length mirror together. She had watched in the mirror as he began to separate her hair into three strands, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"'I love your hair," he would say. "'I love it in braids the most.'"
"'I'll always braid it then, if that's how you like it,'" she would respond.
He would drop the braid and spin her around and kiss her full on the lips, drawing her into a tight, fervent embrace—
"What are you thinking about?"
His hushed whisper snaps her back to reality. She raises her head, looks at him, his face shadowed by the dim lights in the auditorium.
"You."
These previous chapters might seem really boring and out of context with the story at times, but they set the stage for the upcoming scenes, so bear with me and enjoy!