Operetta

“How many items do you have?” The clerk huffed. The keys on her belt jangled as she unlocked the changing room.

“Sev…Eight.” I struggled to count the stack of hangers on my hand. What a nice feeling, forgetting how to count in front of a strangely judgemental teenage employee.

The clerk hung the corresponding number on the door and thumped away in her brand new Doc Martens. I don’t remember being able to afford new shoes like that when I worked in a department store. I suppose she could have more than one job.

I shook off the thoughts as I hung all my finds up.

The dress.

The dress that I had been searching for. It was here, I had found it. It was going to be perfect for my company’s fundraiser. The rest of the hangars were simply casualties in my whirlwind through the store. I hadn’t even stopped by the shoes yet.

The dark red velvet shimmied onto my body and draped like water. I had never felt quite so confident. Thank God I had the foresight to do my hair and makeup so I wasn’t looking like a fluorescent-lit gremlin in this perfect dress.

I was about to take it off when a rose hit my feet. I glanced up at the ceiling, wondering who had thrown a rose in the dressing room of all places. It was gorgeous, long-stem, with the thorns pruned off.

I reached for the straps again and was hit on the thigh by another, this time a white rose.

“Hello…?” I stage-whispered. As far as I knew there wasn’t anyone else in the dressing rooms.

“Do you need a bigger size?” Came the call from the employee.

“A bigger… no, thank you.” I pinched my lips together to keep all the words in. The dress fit perfectly. That’s all that mattered.

A whole bouquet of roses appeared suddenly in front of me, floating in front of the mirror. Not only that, there was a hand holding them!

“Ah!” I stumbled backwards and hit the wall.

“Did you fall? I can call an ambulance,” The clerk's words were dry and pointed.

“Honey, I am 36 years old, if I needed an ambulance it would be more than a fall,” I bit back, probably a bit too poisonously.

“Whatever…” I barely caught the mumble.

I examined the bouquet and the hand, a man’s hand with a gorgeous ring on it, an ornate masterpiece with a dark emerald center. I poked at the petals, which were entirely real.

Stress. This had to be stress. I worked myself into hallucinations. Embarrassing.

Just then the hand reached forward to grab mine and pulled me forward. I braced for impact against the full-length mirror and was shocked when none came. I felt like I was moving through sponge cake for two seconds and then I was out.

Lights blinded me and I raised my hand to shield my eyes. I could hear the roar of the ocean.

No, not the ocean. Applause. I was on stage receiving applause.

“Brava!”

“Bellisima!”

“Encore!”

My breath caught in my throat as I glanced around. I was on stage in a massive theater. Red curtains, a few shades brighter than my dress, framed my field of vision. Boxes stacked up the wall and I could barely make out the glitter of jewelry and opera glasses.

I stumbled backwards but the hand that had pulled me into this delusion was steadying the small of my back. I looked over to the owner of the hand, a handsome man probably ten years older than myself, gray speckling his beard and temples.

He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Could you take your final bow already you absolute diva.”

Shocked, I complied. I conjured memories and choir solo performances past and brought one hand to my chest, my other arm cradling the roses. My head dipped in mock elegance and the crew finally had the signal to close the curtains, the mystery man glued to my side, grinning widely until the curtains had stilled.

“Your ego has transcended this plane, Vivienne. Surely you have ruined La Traviata for me forever.” The man stormed off, tossing a rose over his shoulder. He knew my name. Whatever was happening here, he knew my actual name.

“Oh, don’t listen to Calvin,” a young woman in a deep purple dress came up to me. I saw several other women in similar dresses and deduced she was a part of the choir. Was I… the prima donna in an opera? She was still talking. “I think he’s the one with the ego. That run in act 1? You could hear him straining.”

“Oh, ha. Yeah.” I replied distractedly. I glanced around looking for my mirror home. To my dismay I found the set was positively covered in ornate full length mirrors. What kind of interpretation was this?? Crew members dressed in head-to-toe black started rolling them away, into the wings, into unnamed storerooms to collect dust.

“Wait,” I reached out to touch the nearest one but nothing happened.

“What happened to your shoes, Viv?” The woman laughed as she exited into the shadowy wing, leaving me alone, barefoot, and clutching my bouquet of roses.