She is wearing a lace nightgown. It must be night music, music to play when you wish your lover was with you. She is barefoot. Her ankles are milky white and very delicate and slim. Her toes are very sweet. It seems I am right in front of them now...I see each toe, so beautifully sculpted.

Now I am rushing down the aisle, away from her, like a gothic heroine, rushing out to the coatroom. I am seized with the desire to dress like her! It is the only way I can truly appreciate her music.

The coatroom of the theater is like someone's bedroom the night of a big party. Coats are piled high on the bed. Only they are no longer coats, they are pretty dresses, and underthings. I am pulling garterbelts out, and stockings of all different colors, and I am holding up delicious pairs of panties.

It becomes some kind of store, almost. Some of the things have price tags. I can't believe my good fortune in finding so much lovely lingerie. There are dresses on long racks, and with great abandon, I go through them, hunting for what I desperately need.

Finally I see a white full slip with bunches of lace at the throat. It is so beautiful! It is like her nightgown! I begin to cry out in excitement, shrieking my joy. I should be quiet and not risk being discovered dressing like this!

Now I am back in my theater seat. I adjust my hem so that the frilly lace is showing, and I clutch my hands to my bosom. Tears begin to cascade down my cheeks as I listen to the beautiful violinist who is still playing her lovely, melancholy refrains

Yes! She is wearing the same thing that I am wearing.

She is crying, too. She weeps as she plays. And behind her, stolid and funereal, are several men in their tuxedoes. They are all playing wind instruments and nobody seems to even hear them. They must be playing very softly.

I emote to her, I want her to see that I am wearing something pretty like she is. That I understand her. That I am like her. Like a silent film actress, I make gestures, running my hands along the front of my dress, quivering my fingers, hoping she can see.

Her eyes, blinded with tears, don't see me. She plays on.

I am on my knees, kissing her feet, my tears wetting her delicate toes. Is it her feet, really? Or someone else? Am I on stage doing this so that everyone can see?