so it was handel's messiah, and there was just something about the baritone. he didn't want to be there; had no interest other than a few fleeting moments that involved himself, memory and imagination, and the young soprano. previous to the evening, he managed to sip out of his pocket flask the required whiskey to whet his palate for uncontrollable vibrato, so that the moments of staccato scales came with a difficulty in differentiating between the frivolous vibrato and the change in actual base note. not that it was really a matter any longer, as this was obviously just another pass toward a hopeful retirement that had been pushed back a bit with a collapse of his investment in a certain hedge fund.

in his chair on the left he sat, with his slacks lifted to clear the knees of any discomfort leaving the socks to tease the front row with their possible edge. his tux jacket fit rather well, but the shirt underneath was forced to a wrinkled lump pressed out from a belly exacerbated by a slumped and apathetic posture. there was a moment where apathy seemed to wane from his face and body, but unfortunately the ephemeral change died when the realization that the soprano was not the same as that one. one of his first concerts after finishing the conservatory. she was thin for an operatic singer, with a voice that was anything but. she lead him down a path of notes where his baritone became a tenor, and then as if the two voices morphed, managed to drop to a D2 with the sudden desire for a cigarette. but this young soprano had only fleeting moments that reminded him of the past muse. that is to say, once her voice failed to fill him in any way with feeling, that was the reminder of just how long ago it was when he last felt something that resembled having swallowed a fresh ember.

what he really needed was another few whiskies and a prostitute named bambi: the first feeling almost like the warmth of love that pleasantly burns as it passes through the chest bringing a slight change in perception and the second a body whose loving intensions last equally as long as the time paid on the parking meter. he would never have told you that directly (unless you were bambi), but the empty look on his face during most of the performance, and the fact that he almost missed his cue for one of his solos, should lead you to understand where he really was. just like so many others who never became quite what they wanted -even if they were revered by so many- what he held inside was vacancy, a neon-sign announcing room for rent; even temporary tenants would be better company than the memories with no corners and a coffee with no cream or sugar.