Snapshots

Until Death

She was a princess, draped in milky satin and smelling lightly of lilacs and raspberry tea. He was her prince, clothed in velvet-lined silk the color of the smoothest chocolate and dusted with the scent of cedar and tobacco. Her thin, white hand lay delicately over his arm as he led her to their usual seats: 26 and 27A. The theater buzzed with a full audience chamber and the sound of tuning instruments. Crimson carpet muffled the sound of hundreds of footsteps pattering their way toward their seats. The lights dimmed. Voices hushed. The orchestra started. The musical began.

It was the same musical every year: The Phantom of the Opera. An old tradition of theirs that started with their first date on October 12 of '87. She was just as lovely then – just as soft, just as confident, just as radiant, with her short, dark hair tucked neatly behind her ears and her dainty lips stained the same shade of red as the theater's interior. He still had the same dark moustache then, the same bushy eyebrows, the same old-fashioned pipe and pocket watch – gifts from his grandfather.

They went back to the theater on their first anniversary in '88, and again on their second anniversary when he proposed in '89. He was so nervous, he dropped the ring and had to crawl on all fours to find it underneath another couple's seats. He chuckled at the memory. He wasn't sure why he was ever nervous; he knew she was the one the moment he first laid eyes on her.

They even went on their wedding day a year later in 1990, on their way back from the courthouse. They had planned on having a "real" wedding, but after discussing all the family they felt obligated to invite and wondering where they would find a big enough venue and what kind of menu everyone would want, they realized they wanted nothing more than just a private evening together. And, after promising to love each other forever, they went to see their favorite musical.

This, of course, was all in the old theater, before the fire of '91.

He shifted in his seat and held her hand a bit tighter. She looked over and gave him that smile. That angelic smile. If the ancient Greeks had known about that smile, they would have carved it into the sculptures of their deities. No one should let a smile like that go uncaptured.

He smiled in reply and turned his attention back to the stage.

If he sat very still and inhaled deeply through his nose, he thought he could still catch a faint whiff of smoke. He remembered thinking that it had been someone using a match to light a cigarette at first, but it wasn't until he noticed a bright orange flame that he realized the theater was on fire. No one else seemed to notice yet. The fire was only at the very top of one of the back curtains, and everyone's attention was stuck on Christine Daaé singing onstage.

Fire! Fire! He had jumped up from his seat, waving his arms like a windmill, trying desperately to be heard above the orchestra and the singing. Gradually, and yet instantly, the theater filled with panicked screams; the actors and the orchestra stopped, and it was a full second before they realized what was going on. He had grabbed her hand and pulled her from her seat, tried to run to the exit, tried to lead her to safety, but the crowd was too much. People were swarming, pushing, shoving their way to the doors, smoke snaking around them. He could feel the flames growing and spreading rapidly, and between the fire behind him and the bodies pressing against him, the heat was already verging on unbearable and causing him to sweat. He couldn't stop her hand, her small, soft, white hand, from slipping out of his, but he was so sure she was still right behind him, so sure she would make it out anyway, so sure they had enough time, that he didn't stop until he had made it safely to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. He sat on the dirty concrete, coughing and rubbing his eyes and leaning against the brick building, waiting for her small frame to emerge from the crowd, waiting for those eyes to light up when they met his, waiting for her to run to him and wrap her thin arms around his neck and pull her body tightly to his and kiss him with those soft, red lips. He waited until people stopped pouring out of the theater. He waited until the firefighters came. He waited until the fire was put out. He waited until he was told to go home, until he received a phone call verifying the worst, until a firefighter knocked on his door and gave him a diamond ring that had been salvaged. He waited until the funeral ended. He waited until people stopped calling and bringing him casseroles. He waited until he could get out of bed and open the drapes again. He waited until the theater was rebuilt. He waited until October 12, 1992, when he went to the theater and bought two tickets for The Phantom of the Opera.

And there she was. Soft, white, and beautiful. A princess draped in milky satin. He didn't miss a beat. He held up his arm, and her delicate hand rested on top of it as he led her to seats 26 and 27A. Her rose-petal lips kissed him and then parted to show that divine, holy smile.

I've missed you.

He squeezed her hand. I've missed you, too. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner.

She shook her head and stroked his cheek. Don't be. I'm just glad you're here now.

The lights dimmed. Voices hushed. The orchestra started. The musical began. And he forgot all that had occurred over the previous year, and he stopped punishing himself for letting go of that hand, and he couldn't believe how lucky he was to be in the presence of such an ethereal woman. And when the play was over, he sat in his seat, holding her hand, until the usher told him he had to leave. He nodded, then turned and placed his hand beneath her chin.

I have to leave again, my love.

I know. Thank you for coming.

I'll come again. I promise.

And he did. He came again the next year, and the next, and the next, until now it was twenty years later in 2011, and he was 45 while she was still 26, and you couldn't smoke in a theater anymore, but that was fine by him, and sometimes he wondered how The Phantom of the Opera managed to be playing every year on October 12, but he figured he shouldn't question it too much, and he sometimes thought about coming to the theater more often than once a year, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to do it, and a lot of the time he found himself asking why, why didn't he hold onto her tighter, why did he leave her behind, why didn't he go back for her, but then he reminded himself that those kinds of questions wouldn't fix anything because he would never know an answer that he liked, and sometimes his family told him to go out and meet someone and get married again, but he knew he could never do that to her, and every year on October 12 the usher watched as he paid for two tickets and sat next to an empty seat, but that didn't matter to him because he knew she was there even if he was the only one who could see her, and he felt blessed to be the only one in the world allowed to see such beauty, and after the play ended he said I love you, and she said I love you too, and he said You look beautiful tonight, and she said You look dashing, and then he said I'm sorr- but she stopped him and said Don't be; I'm happy the way we are, and he smiled and said Me too, and she asked I'll see you next year? and he said Yes, my love, next year – I promise.