(TYLER}
I'm not sure I'm an opera buff," Sasha says doubtfully after we've made our way to the bar at intermission. He clapped politely at the
curtain, but he had to stifle yawns all the way through.
"Yeah, like I said, The Magic Flute would have been better to start with. Opera's an acquired taste," I tell him. "Like olives."
"I love olives," he points out.
"You want one in a martini, baby?" I raise my finger to get the attention of the bartender.
"I do not. I'll have water, though, if you are."
"We'll have a large bottle of sparkling water and two glasses," I tell the bartender in my best Italian.
"At once, sir," he says back in English. I guess my best Italian is still not going to fool any actual Italian.
We take our drinks over to one of the standing tables in a corner of the bar, which smells heavily of cigarettes and perfume in the wake of the crowd, and look at each other.
"So what now?" I ask. "Is it dangerous to go back in? If they know who we are, I mean."
