I let gravity drop me to the seat, and wait.
Music washes over me, like a dream.
Overture. Act one. Man in the mirror, so forlorn, so tortured.
Compassion grips me. I cry.
A chandelier falls.
In the interval, an obscure whisper. I turn.
No one there. I disregard the voice I must have dreamt, and sip my wine.
Again, he calls me softly by name. Again, I turn. Again, no one there.
“I am your angel. Come to your angel.”
I didn’t dream that, did I?
“Who are you?” I ask.
“The Phantom of the Opera is here, inside your mind”