She had a huge wine glass for tips and it was distressingly empty in the absence of any notable rewards except for a single dollar bill that looked like it had been saved since World War II. Her face was pretty enough, but she didn’t have that friendly look that one would expect in a bar lounge when one is working for tips. I could tell she was not a happy camper playing the tedious piece and I suspected she probably would want to be playing something of her own composition or some free-wheeling jazz tune that would make everyone sit up and pay attention.It appeared we were the only two humans in residence that were under the age of thirty with the possible exception of the busboy who had that ageless look of non-English speaking Central American immigrants without proper documentation.He could have been sixteen or sixty.For some strange reason, my thoughts shifted to my passionless ex-girlfriend back in New York City. She was still this side of thirty and surprisingly was one of. I felt so lost, so alone and so very cold. When next my mind became clear, I was standing at Madame's side holding her hand. She nodded her head to me and I remember throwing the crocus I picked for him into the darkness. The bruised and withered flower became my final offering to my father's grave."My next memory is of someone jostling me and bowling me over flat at a train station. He was very large and most likely never saw me. I could barely see his face; his belly blocked his features from my view as I sat on the train platform looking up at him. And then, I remember Madame showing me my room for the first time. I may have been ill when I first arrived at the opera house, as Madame made me stay in bed for a long time. When she finally allowed me to leave my bed, she tried to coax me into trying out for the chorus or the ballet. I steadfastly refused. I sang only for my Papa and with him gone, I had no reason to sing again. Since I did not belong to either the chorus or the.
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