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“Dolce speranza, freddo timore, dentro al mio core stanno a pugnar.”

Anthony’s voice rang out from the stage, bright and present, echoing back to him all the way from the last row. The audience members’ faces shifted from looks of confusion to surprised enjoyment. That was the thing about Anthony. He knew he could be frustrating, he knew he could be demanding, but when push came to shove, he was worth the trouble.

Anthony’s clear tenor filled the theater. His sound always bloomed once things went his way. Now that he had dispensed with the awful costumes, he could give himself fully to the character and the music. His heart swelled as he built to the triumphant high note, his soul pouring out through the clarion metal of his voice.

***

The bar that Jennifer had chosen was perfect, no surprise there. It had an old school Italian vibe, with dark wood and antique light fixtures that cast an amber glow over the room. It made Anthony think of his nonna’s favorite restaurant back in East Hanover, of Friday nights eating chicken parmigiana.

“Oh my god, your high notes sounded so good tonight. You ate.” The cute twink chorister touched Anthony on the chest.

Probably in his late twenties, the guy didn’t have many years of twinkdom left, although he was holding on tight to his youth with his dyed blonde hair and his tank top and parachute pants combo. They were in direct contrast with Anthony’s dark hair and classic suit.

Evidently, the twink had gotten enough liquid courage to make his move.

“Thank you, tesoro.” Anthony winked at him. “You looked great in your army uniform. Very butch.”

The chorister blushed a bright pink. “I was worried the pants made me look like a twig.”

“Not at all. You can’t hide that perfect ass of yours.”

The chorister pressed in closer to Anthony, purring and earthy like a furtive viola. “I don’t want to hide it. I want to show it off.”

Anthony leaned in to whisper in his ear, catching the scent of sour apple shampoo wafting off his hair. “I’d watch that show.”

A voluptuous figure approached them, wrapped in scarves and dripping with stylish, over-the-top jewelry. She was practically gliding as she made her way across the crowded bar. Her red lipstick appeared burgundy in the dim lighting. Anthony kissed the twink on the cheek and squeezed a handful of his perky ass. The blonde man giggled, sighing and tracing a pattern on Anthony’s stomach with his fingertips.

“You can put on your show later tonight in my hotel room,” Anthony said. “Go chat with the others. I’ll grab you on my way out.”

The chorister smiled and stepped back. When he saw who was coming, he nodded and scurried away.

“You’ll break his heart, you know.” Her voice was low and mellifluous, the rich, dark sound associated with Eastern European singers.

“Lena, I’m surprised you came out.” The Polish mezzo-soprano usually retreated to her hotel room after rehearsal. “A bar doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“I’m not drinking, darling.” Lena kissed Anthony on each cheek before raising her glass of clear liquid and giving it a shake. “Club soda. I’m surprised you are, though.”

“It’s two whole days until opening. Plenty of time to recover.” Anthony downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass on the bar.

“Drunk and flirting with some chorus boy. You must leave behind a string of broken hearts in every city.”

“Oh please.” Lena was being so awkwardly straight, one of Anthony’s least favorite things. Why did the heterosexuals make such a big deal about sex? “Everyone knows that I’m leaving in two weeks. No surprises.”

“I’ve seen that boy looking at you during rehearsals. It’s pure infatuation. He’s going to sleep with you because he thinks that’s all he can get from you.”

“He’s not wrong.” Anthony shrugged. It was the nature of the thing. He didn’t have time for relationships. His schedule was grueling, and anything more than a one-night stand was baggage he couldn’t afford.

“People aren’t secondary characters in the story of your life, Anthony.”

“Don’t call me that.” Anthony looked around, anxiety spiking in his chest. Hopefully, everyone was too tipsy and involved in their own conversations to overhear.

“You may pretend to be Antonio Bianchi, heartthrob Italian tenor, but I knew you when you were Tony Bianchi, commuting to grad school from his grandma’s house in New Jersey.”

“Only my nonna calls me Tony.” Lena was really getting on his nerves. He appreciated her honesty, but he liked his illusions. Being Antonio made him feel larger-than-life and brave, not like scared seven-year-old Tony, who lost his parents in a car accident.

“Fair enough, dear.” Lena took a sip of her drink, her lips leaving behind traces of burgundy on the glass. “But people aren’t disposable. You can’t toy with their hearts. And you can’t throw fits every time someone puts you in an outfit you don’t like.”

“The pants were cutting off my breath!”