Higher

110°

Why, exactly, he and several other workmates were going to an opera, was something he couldn't give an answer to. As he stared at the ticket held between both thumbs and forefingers at either end, Oliver couldn't help but think back to the conversation they had earlier on in a yakitori restaurant. It might have been his ears playing tricks on him as did the world, but he was sure he heard a name he had never been acquainted with ever since the eve of their graduation day. He felt his hands tighten their grip on the thin, gilded rectangle, watching the edges crinkle slightly. The snow was falling lightly today, and yet the temperature was still as cold as it could ever be. His blurry peripherals betrayed the presence of another person to his right, and as he looked up, his co-worker waved at him briefly.

The journey to the local opera house was silent, and although it was awkward for the other party, Oliver didn't really care in particular. He knew how much his companion wanted to make conversation, but couldn't, due to the difference in demeanor and preferences— if Oliver even had any— which made him wonder why they invited him in the first place. Out of a futile attempt to be friendly or of common courtesy, he believed neither, clinging strongly to the belief that it had been the poison of alcohol which led them to have his presence on this holiday. Although, he guessed he appreciated their efforts, shining in the glory of stutters and ocassional eye contact. He didn't know whether they avoided him due to the fact that he probably unconsciously glared at everyone, or if they were convinced that sexually transmitted diseases were transferrable through airbourne vectors. Or that he even had them, in the first place.

But as his boots crunched against snow, followed by a slower rhythm of similar sound behind him, he sighed. He wasn't supposed to mind. And he didn't.

The greetings he was given and the ushering of the others waiting for them by the door of the opera house were blocked out, seeming to never have existed in the first place, as he laid his eyes on the poster for the second time around. In normal cases, he wouldn't even have reason to admire the golden letterings of the show, or the scripted show of elegance in the queen's form, or the mystery shrouding the peasant's presence. His red hair stood out, accentuated by his plain brown garbs, piercing crimson irises glinting under the light of the photograph. The pallor of his skin was a huge contrast to the poster's dark theme, and yet, he proved to be the most tainted, internally darker and shadier than even his role proved to be. It was ironic how he'd be seeing him again; from the audience, away from the stage. It was hilarious how the world could simply play tricks on one's life whenever it wanted, and this was one indomitable, although unexpected, twist of fate. The roles were reversed, and not only would Oliver be spectating this time; he would be enjoying the entertainment provided by the group's best efforts to move people and capture their hearts with the use of acting and skill.

Too ironic.

He wondered if they were tired of doing it as well?

But then again, it gave them profit.

And then again, who was to say that the profit fulfilled them?

The guides led them to the inside of the hall, where they walked a particularly long, fancy corridor lined with paintings on one side and pictures from various periods on the other. The poles that held the strings of red gleamed in the yellow light, reflecting in everyone's eyes a beauty that only partial blindness could offer. The golden frames that were hung on the walls also seemed to provide a sight reserved entirely for those who saw the world through filtered glass, and yet the photos encased in the fragile material were stark contrasts to them in regards to color. The message it had been trying to deliver, though, was exactly the same, as its target audience nodded in approval and, in some cases, falsified appreciation manifested in nodding, tinted lips, gloved hands, and fancy dresses, arms covered in laced shawls latching onto their husbands' money.

The only thing that proved worthy of a fuss, though, for Oliver, was the presence of a young man who strode through the flocks of people. They parted, making way for him as Moses did the Red Sea, not a single persona in an entourage behind him. Everyone knew who he was, but they were also fully aware that he knew absolutely none of them. It was that kind of a concept that pushed people to a point of desperation which had them digging the thin of their high heels into the backs of even the unacquainted. Hitching their skirts up and hungrily ascending the flight of unstable stairs they built, desperate for those they looked upon, to spare them a glance which was beyond the level of business smiles. This thought would make one chuckle; what if the person, himself, was looking at himself in the mirror with a business smile?

His shoes made no sound against the carpeted floor, and as he finished his elegant march towards the double doors, they closed, and the chatting in the hall resumed, now having new material to gossip over. His co-workers were undoubtedly stunned as everyone was, and although the unexpected tardiness— or was it scripted coincidence?— of the lead actor was considered off-putting by a few of them, his desired effect was already put into play; attention on him.