A NIGHT AT THE OPERA Gretchen Fletcher I watched as she bound her hair in a gold mesh snood and buttoned his tux studs before they left for the Met, "to hear Lohengrin," they said. Too young for Wagner, I lay on someone else's bed in a circle of cold light crisscrossed with moonshadows cast by maple tree limbs on someone else's street and picked at the soft, pink tufts of someone else's chenille spread while listening to their clock tick on their crocheted dresser scarf and felt as lonely as "Lohengrin" sounded.

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