Opera House

Act I.

Built an opera house for you in the deepest jungle--and I walked across its stage, singing with my eyes closed.

This is their home.

Sage-coloured walls smattered in black-rimmed frames filled with photographs. One of Bright standing tall in his podium, eyes hooded in a pensive gaze, his hand suspended on air holding his baton. Encapsulated in an all-black suite and tie. One of his first major concertos.

And one of Win frozen in space in a grand jété, wearing an avant-garde olive-green silk ensemble, from when he played as Lysander three years ago. His brazen figure and emotive eyes captivating. Some photographs are of them at the theatre in Sukhumvhit for Win's plays--Win showered in Bright's post-performance bouquets and presents and some of Win's focused gaze sitting on the front row of every concerto Bright's been in.

Every nook and every cranny is either filled with Bright's chord sheets or Win's beat-up pointé shoes. Ballet pamphlets, and operatic playbills.

Its their home. All filled with their memories for the past seven years.

The opening notes to Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C-sharp minor has unfurled its sultry tones, therefore coating the expanse of the eerie apartment. Win's limbs stretched out to switch from 2nd to 4th position, then slowly transposes to 5th,--he's doing some extra barre exercises for tomorrow's rehearsals. He's been mustering the simple movements in the makeshift barre by the windowsill the best he can, plastering on a calm bravado. But to no avail.

Chopin's Nocturne surely didn't help. It's Bright's most favourite piece. It only lead him to reminisce the good stuff, the great memories of their yester-youth. Years ago, Bright would spend hours on the piano while Win danced and rehearsed. He would play Win his favourite Opus, anything Win would set his mind to, anything he would beckon Bright to play.

But as of now, its just Win and the faint sound from the cassette. Bright is in their room, drunk. Again. His loud strings of profanities signalling his frustration couldn't even be drowned out by the music.

Their home still felt like home. The living room is empty and silent, the drawers housing Bright's wide array of cd's, and Win's ballet memoirs. The furnitures casting grotesque silhouettes, and the dainty kitchen is well-kempt. Only the sound resonating from the cassette and the humming of the refrigerator can be heard as soon as Bright settles in his solitude in the bedroom.

Win directed his line of sight where polaroids of him and Bright from their many trips were tacked by magnets. All loved-up. Bright's lips grazing his cheek, Win's eyes crinkling,--everything manifested what has been the greater times in their relationship. Win smiled brokenly. Those were the easier days,--the simpler times.

Everything looked the same, but feels different. Its still their home, their love nest as Bright liked to call it. Yet there's no denying that beneath the surface, something is breaking--or in this case, about to break.

Win guessed they just didn't understand each other anymore. That or Bright just didn't want to be understood. Kind of like dancing with your eyes closed--or forcing yourself to sing a song you haven't heard before.

The first 6 years with Bright has been the right amount of chaos he needed in his life. The kind of chaos Win craved and yearned for. It was in full chaos, but they were happy. They were struggling individually,--but they had each other. Bright and Win understood each other deeply, too uncanny their colleagues believed they were basically the same person.

5 YEARS AGO

"You never have to do things alone anymore. You're gonna have me for the rest of your life that you're gonna have to turn me off like a broken record," Bright uttered merrily as he took a sip out of his wine glass.