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Asleep at the Ballet
Reflections on building memories together
One would hardly assume that I, of all people, would ensconce myself in a very narrow folding chair on the balcony of the Royal Theatre to watch ballet. That it was a modern interpretation of Dante’s Inferno may also be an indicator that Mercury was in retrograde or Mars was exhibiting aberrant behavior. One will never truly know, but I was in this situation last November on a cool, crisp night in København.
When you’re in a relationship, one of the things you understand to be true, if not initially, is that each partner has pronounced differences. These differences range from the obvious to the oblique, and part of your unfolding history together is determining where and when those differences will collide in meaningful ways. You hope to learn the outcomes of said differences before conflict emerges, but life isn’t always keen on helping you.
You’d expect to hear the first murmurings of my discontent with modern ballet by now; indeed, my dearest Emma did offer me several opportunities to find an alternative way to spend the evening. That said, you don’t know what you don’t know, and I’m never one to shy away from new opportunities.
I’ll cut to the chase: we both fell asleep at alternating times. There, dear reader, I said it. We fell asleep at the ballet.
