The next evening, there I stood, punctual and lingering on the sidewalk, the majestic Gotham City Opera House behind me working as a stunning backdrop. For a late fall come early winter night, the weather was quite mild and pleasantly cool.

In the midst of it all, I developed a rather bothersome habit of adjusting my already perfect cufflinks every few minutes.

My special three-piece suit that I saved only for occassions such as these hadn't seen the light of day for quite a few months. Tightened finances being what they were, I was forced to treat myself less and less. There was a sense of elation when I pulled back the plastic dry-cleaner bag earlier that day. Wearing the suit again was like slipping on an old skin, familiar and empowering.

I had also done something with my hair. In normal conditions it wilted lifelessly over my forehead, thin and every bit as alluring as charred straw. An odd little tuft at the rear of my scalp, the one that could never lie flat, suddenly looked out of place. I ran my fingers through the dead strands ponderingly, watching my reflection. Assuming the visuals of a gentleman meant looking a little less like...me. No exception as to whether or not I was one every other day. I respected the Opera too much.

A dollop of pomade and a few backstrokes of a comb later, my hair was out of my eyes and, at the very least, presentable.

I very nearly left my apartment before noticing the shadow draped across my knuckles. That valet's smug face—smashed near unrecognition thanks to me—flickered in my mind. I flexed and rolled my fingers, watching the undulating bones ripple under my skin, a test of the bruise's noticeability in the light. The last thing I needed was a scrap's discoloration working as a distraction whilst I tried to convince Gotham's elite that I deserved to be there alongside them. No matter what Renata's thoughts were on the subject, I did not regret a moment of it. Being the one to personally dispense what that worm deserved still left me in a suppressed state of euphoria.

I decided to forego any concealment techniques in the end. The shade my sleeve provided did a fine job, so long as I kept my hand to my side as often as possible.

Cab after cab entered the drop-off zone, but Renata still had yet to arrive. My fingers searched yet again for an imagined rogue cufflink. She wouldn't stand me up, I knew she wouldn't. She wouldn't. There was still half an hour until the curtain rose. Plenty of time. Plenty of time.

The identity of my mysterious benefactor still left me with some concern, namely the unknown motivation part, but the letter was clear in it's instructions, so enjoy I would. It wasn't everyday one received admission-free theater tickets and the chance to rub elbows with Gotham's highest ranking socialites. I would face the consequences, if any, at a later time.

Another taxi pulled to the curb, parallel to me. As I was about to wave the driver off to signify I wasn't looking for a ride, the back door popped open. A black suede stilletto heel emerged, attached to a pale ankle. After a pause, the foot bore weight and a woman's head rose above the window.

I almost didn't recognize her.

Her hair wasn't made of the many individual, scraggly crinkles I'd come to know. Tonight it was smoothed into a single uniform wave, reminiscent of Hollywood starlets in the 1940's. The bulk of it draped her cheek on one side.

"Thank you," Renata called brightly into the cab, stooping. Pushing the yellow door shut behind her, she stepped onto the curb, her heels clacking and scraping on the gravely sidewalk.

"I'm sorry, I'm not late am I?" she asked, approaching me.

I blinked rapidly, jolting. "No, no, you're right on time."

Renata's ruby lips spread in a grin. Her slate grey icebreaker jacket flared out, ending at her knees, leaving her bare calves exposed. I had to rely on my peripheral to acertain that point, it would have been distasteful to give her body a once-over in plain sight. A teardrop pearl earring danced beneath her one visible ear, and I assumed its twin was hidden somewhere in the shiny, dark cascade of her leftside. Occupying her hand was a simple, black clutch bag.

"You weren't waiting long were you?" she asked.

"Not at all. You look..."

"Different?"

"Lovely."

She pursed her lips. Tightening her coat around her middle, she replied bashfully, "Thank you."

The shock of brilliant color on her lips emboldened the borders I formerly thought I knew. They seemed expanded, and caught the eye in such a way that I couldn't help but concentrate on the stretch and constriction of them while she spoke. Meanwhile, the splash of burnt-edge silver over her eyelids gave the illusion that her trademark large, heavily-lidded eyes had shrunk.

I cleared my throat. "Shall we?" I gestured to the Opera House.

She nodded and gladly fell in step with me.

Luckily for her ankles, the cement sidewalk had been salted beforehand, leaving the path clear of ice and other wintery hazards. She seemed especially skittish around puddles, though, including the most shallow and insignificant, lightly hopping over them with a delicate lift of her arm for stability. When this happened a second time, I offered my arm to assist her balance.

"Sorry," she said with a sheepish giggle, willingly taking my elbow.

Her pace was mellow. While I would have rather been a little more prompt to reach our seats, I accommodated her easygoing stride instead. I wondered if perhaps her choice in footwear was a little cumbersome, for every step I took she seemed to take two smaller ones.

"Thank you," said Renata suddenly. "For inviting me. I've never experienced an opera before." She then beamed, her voice squealing with excitement like a violin string. "I feel like a princess tonight! Like Cinderella."

Then for her sake I hoped midnight would never come.

"Truthfully, I'm almost clueless about opera," she went on. "I couldn't even name you a single song if I tried. But I've always wanted to try it at least once."

"I appreciate your willingness. Personally, it is one of my favorite things in the world. It is an honour to be the first to introduce you."

She grinned in response. "So you would know a lot about opera, wouldn't you? I'm pretty lucky to have you with me, then. Please be patient with me, I promise I won't ask too many questions."

Personally speaking, I didn't want her to hold back.

We reached the outer concourse circling the establishment. A banner rolled down from the rooftop advertised tonight's performance of Cyrano, depicting a barrel-chested man mid-note as the titular character. Renata craned her head skyward at the decadently lit structure, brilliant spheres of white reflected in her eyes.

"I've never been this close," she said breathlessly, then cast a marveled look at me. "You know what I used to call this place when I was a kid? A castle. I thought a king and queen lived here. I can't tell you how excited I am, I've never seen the inside before."

Bypassing metal detectors and security who scanned our tickets, we entered the lobby.

"Oh..." breathed Renata, her voice dying. From the moment she saw it she was fixated upon the main floor's impressive bubble chandelier. Her jaw slackened minimally whilst her eyes broadened in Wonderlandian enchantment. Her eyes flittered and sparkled in the many lights, latching onto as much detail as possible.

I drew her moderately sideways, more a physical suggestion than an actual tug, to make way for those we were blocking. Renata was like a balloon and steered with the slightest inclination. Even though she followed my lead, she kept her eyes on the chandelier for a few seconds longer. Swivelling her head like a bird, she caught the white double staircase that led to the box seats, the large wall sconces set up at intervals against the walls, and the enormous canvas portraits of the Gotham City's Opera House's past, starting from the late-1800's to present.

"Beautiful , isn't it?" I said knowingly.

She didn't answer but her far-off nod indicated she heard me.

"Coat check?"

Renata, thrown-off track, turned her attention to the man behind the counter I led her to. She watched him like she'd never seen a coat check counter before. She looked to me uncertainly in a way that communicated her hesitancy on how to proceed and would take my lead with anything I did in the next few seconds.

A bubble of pride formed in my chest. I felt strangely uplifted, arrogant even, to have somebody partly dependent on me. A pleasing feeling it was to have an advantage. She was in my world now. "Yes, thank you," I answered the coat check assistant.

Handing mine off and receiving the numbered ticket for retrieval later in the evening, Renata followed my actions and started unbuttoning the lapels of her coat. A slash of solid red-wine color emerged from the opening slit. Slipping the final fastener free, she shrugged the coat off her shoulders, and a sleeveless cocktail dress bloomed into view. Cinched with a thin, similarly colored belt at the navel, her skirt fanned out in an A line to her knees. The material even moved like wine in a glass, as though her dress had been poured straight from the bottle.

She self-consciously avoided my gaze and handed in her coat to receive her own numbered ticket, placing it inside her handbag. The small square of paper must have been putting up a fight because she seemed very adamant on stuffing it inside as effort-inducing and slow as possible. She looked up through her eyelashes at me. I knew what she was looking for in my face because for a long stretch of my childhood I had done the same: she was searching for judgement.

She would not find it in my neutral expression, nor would I waste my time indulging vanity. Frankly, she knew better than to think that way around me. Or at least she should have learned by now, but from what I'd known of Renata so far, I expected her to be a slow learner. Undoing the crippling emotional perception she was taught all her life was not my job, she had to find that within herself, just like I had to.

That wasn't to say, however, that I didn't mind having her on my arm tonight. She knew the way I felt about her.

Seemingly placated by my lack of criticism, her mood returned to her former happy-go-lucky dial setting. "Do you mind if we look around for a little bit?" she asked.

I did mind somewhat. I usually preferred claiming my seat early. Still, tonight my spirits were in good standing and I was willing to compromise in order for her introductory experience be a positive one. "For a few minutes, I suppose," I answered obligingly.

Renata excitedly flittered about, her skirt swishing as she stopped and swerved from desk to desk to view various souvenirs and information on tonight's performance, not to mention reading the little factoids on the walls about the Opera House's inception, construction, and most prominent donating patrons.

An older couple promenaded past me on their way to the grand staircase, casting irritable stares at Renata as if should have been exercising more self-control. The woman's stern pucker couldn't even be offset by the glimmering diamonds at her neck. She leaned over and muttered something to her husband, and they both continued on their way. I held my gaze tight on them as I watched them go.

Renata wasn't making a scene, she was quite well-behaved, but her energy may have looked out of place in the demure setting of the Opera House lobby and its upperclass patrons. I thought it may have been best to reign her in, if only for her sake to counteract the minor attention she was receiving.

She flounced over to me, a performance program and a playbill clutched in her hand. "Definitely going to keep these," she said, shuffling the booklets admiringly in her hands like they were collector's cards. Her teardrop pearl earrings bobbed and swung in a frenzy. Their shine was dull, and they swayed with very little weight, leading me to believe they weren't genuine pearl.

Then, just as she was about to move on to another target, her ankle buckled—not enough to for her to fall, but just enough to stagger. The majority of her momentum fell in my direction and I quickly caught her shoulder.

Stepping twice to find her balance again, she suddenly giggled. "Sorry," she trilled, "I'm not quite used to these." She pumped a leg behind her to exhibit a stiletto, and then whispered aside like she was sharing a secret with me. "They're not exactly work appropriate at my place."

I let go of her shoulder, safe to assume she wasn't at risk of toppling over, and she wandered away a little more carefully. "Perhaps it would be best to calm your enthusiasm," I said as tactfully as possible, careful to inflect a touch of amusement to prevent her from feeling embarassed. "People are taking notice."

I almost felt like I was speaking to a mask. Her glamorous make-up hadn't changed her features so significantly that I could not recognize her, but they were noticeably different.

"Huh?" Renata scanned the lobby to find one or two decadent socialites whose curious attention she caught. Comprehension dawned on her face and she turned to me again. "Oh, I'm sorry! Is that not allowed at places like this? That kind of behaviour? I didn't mean to act up or anything. Honestly, I didn't know."

Her anxious look wounded me, and I felt as though I had put a halt to a natural, intuitive response. Her only crime was enthusiasm for the upcoming event, after all. Perhaps I was feeling sympathetic in that she was physically displaying what I was suppressing out of necessity to achieve an air of class.

"On second thought," I corrected, "never mind. Carry on however you like."

"Oh. Well, if you think it's okay..." She relaxed, but her brightness dulled following that. It did nothing to quell her building anticipation, though.

The tickets weren't prime box seats, but eighth row floor level would do just fine. More than fine. Dead center, too. The main seating hall was only at quarter capacity. Renata lowered herself ladylike into the foldout velvet cushion, and I followed right beside her. The chords of Renata's neck strained and bulged as she craned and whirled in many directions, viewing everything from the enormous chandelier above us to the rows of box seats on either side of the theater. The main hall's theme was strong with a warm red. It decorated everything from the seats to the carpet to the redwood paneling and, of course, the stage curtain.

Renata started thumbing through her playbill. "Is there a synopsis of the story somewhere in here?" she asked. "I don't think this will be in English, am I going to be able to follow it?"

"Normally it's performed in French."

Renata's mouth twisted uneasily. "Uh oh."

I allowed myself a small, chiding chuckle at her apprehension. "Have you forgotten who you're attending with? I'm right here throughout the entire performance if you need to ask." I couldn't quite speak French either, not fluently at least, but I was no stranger to the Cyrano de Bergerac story and it's libretto. It couldn't hurt to let her think I was a little more worldly, though. It wasn't a bold-faced lie, was it?

I contemplatively observed the stage curtain, which billowed a bare inch from an air-conditioned breeze. "Besides," I continued, "sometimes you don't need to understand every word to understand. Opera is a transcendence of mere words, Renata. If you can feel what the characters feel, hear the intensity or gentle nuance in the rise and fall of their voice, you'll know."

I stole a glimpse at her. Her attention was on the stage as well, and her eyes flickered in wonder as if trying to see the same thing I was.

A thick-set man in a black tuxedo and bowtie wiggled through our aisle and interrupted us by sitting himself down next to me. He barely had any neck to speak of, his head was like a fleshy blob of clay with a slap of thin, brownish hair on top, placed on a pair of burly shoulders. Turning slightly to stuff a pamphlet into his inner pocket, he caught my eye.

"Hey, how's it goin'?" he smiled.

I didn't answer but gave him a polite nod in return, just for manner's sake.

The man shifted to find a comfortable position, taking up my rightside arm rest in the process. "Gonna be a good show, eh?"

I pressed my lips tight and nodded, semi-peeved at his bad timing. Renata didn't seem to mind the interruption, however, and even smiled at the man.

"I hope so," she said across the bridge of me.

There was no use in salvaging, our moment was over. For the remaining three minutes before the performance started, I allowed her to continue her visual exploration of every facet of the theater in the privacy of her own thoughts.

The orchestra conductor appeared from a side stage door and took his place at the head of the pit, the musicians already in place. He bowed three times—right, center, and left—to receive the applause of the audience, and then faced the stage, readying his conductor's wand.

The lights dimmed. Renata prepared herself by straightening in her seat and folding her arms in her lap, crossing one leg over the other. The tensity in her body was palpable, I could almost feel it radiating off of her. Pleasing memories of my first few operas came to mind. I've become jaded to the feeling of child-like anticipation before a show, but it was quite nice to relive it through somebody else, just to remind myself that I felt that way once.

The first brass notes blared, and the heavy curtain parted.


A/N: Oh MAN, what a month it's been! I'm exhausted to the bone, I barely had any time to write this December. It's a belated Christmas miracle I got this done at all.

Dammit, the 'Gotham' writers changed Oswald's mom's name in the show. Usually it's Esther in other Batman media, but the show has gone with Gertrude, so I had to edit the last chapter accordingly. I do so like the sound of Esther more...