The first days of fall managed to be damp and dreary.
It wasn’t exactly “sweater weather” yet — I was still running in shorts and a t-shirt — but it wasn’t punishingly hot, the way it had been earlier in the month.
A friend from law school who lives uptown with his legal same-gender partner wrote to ask if I had any recommendations for a professional exterminator to deal with a mouse problem. As I knew from experience in our house, fall is when mice — even in Manhattan — will try to scurry indoors to set up camp for the winter. I told him that I did have a professional exterminator and sent the below pictures.
“My name is Zephyr and I will handle all of your mice problems.”
“My name is Clio and I, too, am happy to assist with mice problems.”
“Mice are for amateurs, but you can keep me in mind if you have an issue with flying snakes.” — Elektra
“I’m retired.” — Dante (in back)
After dropping the exterminators off to do their work,* I ventured out into the rain to attend a performance of Tristan and Isolde at the Metropolitan Opera.**
*I didn’t actually do this
** I actually did do this
It seemed hard to believe that I had seen my first Tristan more than fifteen years ago. Like an opera queen, I felt nostalgic about productions from the past and skeptical that anything new could measure up.
Maria and I reminisced about old times.
The lights swirled and eventually dimmed.
As it turned out, I wasn’t disappointed in the least. The music, as it always did, took us to another world, better than our own.
