We settle down, bags placed, cardigans zipped, and sit down in her room--not yet moved into, not yet her own.
And then, without ceremony, we begin.
There is no music. There is no one else. It is just us and the words.
One might think that in this cozy dressing room--flourescently lit and unceremoniously dressed--that this little exercise the run would be dry, hollow. But the truth is, the words are so powerful, and our feelings for those words and above all, for each other, so untterably potent, we both go directly "there."
Hands are grasped. It is our own little theatre, our own alchemical magic, right there in a sterile little room.
"... I want you to imagine you are Amina. This is opera Sophie. You're alone on a great stage. Make us feel what you feel. Show us that truth..."
There is a silence and in it, we both look away.
Then she leans in, holds my hand and utters,
"I love this. And you."