It was less will than education. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. You are you. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present.
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