I attended the operetta with this prince. We reclined in a curtained alcove, I in my tunic of tonics, he in his burgundy dressing gown. On stage, the evening unfolded in a series of months, years, until all resolved in dance, deep and heartfelt and utterly ordinary. How will things be if we don’t keep moving? he said to me,  rearranging himself in his chair.  The clicks  and murmurs of metal voices came from all around us. Downstairs, I pulled off my suit and stared without rose- colored glasses. I did not need a mirror to see what was there:  a faucet, pushed too far, rushing and rushing.