Until I Die

right about Violette. She’s actually really nice. It’s just Arthur with the ‘humans suck’ attitude problem. I think I’m just going to avoid him as much as possible.”
“That’s probably a good plan.” Vincent sounded exhausted and distracted. Whatever he had been up to today, it had definitely taken its toll. He didn’t sound like himself.
“Vincent, I’d better go. You sound beat.”
“No, no. I want to talk,” he said quickly. “So tell me: What are you doing, mon ange ?”
“Reading.”
“Not surprising,” he laughed, “coming from Paris’s most voracious devourer of books. Is it something I’ve read?”
I flipped to the front of the book. “Well, it was published four years after you were born, but was banned for most of your life—existence. At least in its uncensored version.”
“Written in 1928 but banned for years. Hmm. Does it have a passage about entering the peace on earth, by any chance?”
“Vincent, you skipped straight to the sex scene! Lady Chatterley’s Lover is about a lot more than a tumble in the gamekeeper’s hut, you know!” I chided jokingly.
“Mmm. Tumbling sounds really good about now.”
My heart hiccuped, but I tried to sound calm. “You know, that is one of my favorite daydreams. Tumbling with you, not gamekeepers.” I grinned, wondering what effect my taunting was having on him.
“Are your grandparents home?” he asked after a pause, his voice sounding suspiciously husky.
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “Good thing, or I’d have to come over and ravish you on the spot. They do talk about ravishing in that book, don’t they?”
I laughed. “I haven’t gotten to any ravishing parts yet. But ravishing and tumbling … I’m not sure I’m available for that, since I have a date with this hot dead dude tomorrow night.”
“Okay, I get it. A very wise change of subject.” He laughed. “So … you haven’t forgotten?” I could hear his tired smile over the phone line.
“Forget a date to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Opéra Garnier? In our own private theater box? Uh, no—I don’t think that would be possible.”
“Good,” he said. “Be there at six to pick you up.” These last words were barely audible. It sounded like he was not only tired but in pain. What had he been doing? Now I was past curiosity and entering very concerned territory.
“See you then. Can’t wait …,” I said, and as I hung up I finished the sentence in my mind: to find out what you’re up to . If he was as worn down tomorrow night as he sounded now, I might just be able to convince him to talk.
    Vincent stood outside my door dressed in his tux, his black hair pushed back off his face in waves. It was like a repeat of my birthday evening: him in his tux and me in the red Asian-patterned long dress he had bought me, worn under Mamie’s floor-length black-hooded coat. Vincent’s eyes shone appreciatively when he saw me, and once we were out on the street, he gave me a long and delicious kiss.
We parked underneath the Opéra. Although I had seen it several times—as a tourist and during the daytime—the building always took my breath away, looking every bit like a marble wedding cake. Tonight it had transformed into a fairy castle, its warm yellow lights glowing magically through the chilly winter air. We followed richly dressed people walking arm in arm through the monumental doors.
“Have you been here before?” I asked as we walked into the foyer.
“I’ve come a few times as a fill-in date for Gaspard or Jean-Baptiste when the other was dormant. They always have season passes.”
We stepped into the center of the room, and I looked up. “Oh,” I gasped, the sumptuous surroundings robbing me of my capacity for intelligent speech. The enormous space was decorated in an over-the-top mash-up of styles—with every single inch of the floors, walls, pillars, and ceiling decorated to the nth degree in gold, marble, mosaic, or crystal. In any other setting it would seem like too much. But here it was stunning.
Vincent led me up the left-hand branch of the grand marble staircase to the second floor, and down a curved hallway lined with dozens of little wooden doors. We stopped in front of number nineteen.
“I didn’t reserve the royal box,” Vincent explained as he placed his hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t think you’d like the ostentation. Everyone’s always ogling it, trying to see who’s inside. This one’s just a good ten-spectator box, but I