Overheard: "Paterfamilias"

“How is it?”, asked Kip, crossing his ankles under the table. 

“Hm?” Xin swallowed her mouthful. “How is what?” 

“Your carbonara.” 

“Oh. Fine, it’s fine.” 

Kip nodded diffidently. “That’s good.” 

“You didn’t like it, did you?” 

“I said the carbonara was fine.” 

“No, I meant the opera.” 

“Oh.” Xin daubed her lips with her napkin, then made two extra strokes, one along each whisker. “It was very … serviceable. The production design was very nice, the lighting especially. You could hardly tell those were kleigs.” 

Kip nodded again, rotely. He poked at his risotto with his fork, hoping this motion might make his appetite return. 

Xin sighed, her barbels flouncing. “I’m sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.” 

“Well… maybe not. Or maybe, yes. You went to great lengths to get these wonderful seats, and in the first week of opening, too, and here I am just being ungrateful about it.” 

“I can’t make you like something you don’t like.” 

“What did you think of it?” 

“Um… I …” 

Xin didn’t look up from her plate when she asked, “Non parli italiano, vero?” 

“So un po' di italiano,” responded Kit with practiced pronunciation. 

“I cantanti avevano alcuni accenti molto classici nelle voci." Xin enjoyed another helping of carbonara. It was more than fine. 

Kip’s brows knit as he thought about his answer. “… Certamente?” 

Xin smiled. “It’s okay, I was often lost, too. I worry that you picked a production without subtitles just to impress me.” 

Kip’s tail thrashed. “They have theaters with subtitles?” 

“Ooh yes. This production will probably add them once they’ve finalized the libretto.” 

“You don’t think this was final?” 

Xin snorted. “I hope not. It’s one thing to have allegory, it’s another to have anvils.” 

“So you thought it was too heavy-handed?” 

“Again, I’m really not sure.” Xin adjusted her chair. “I get that the central conceit, that the paterfamilias’ boundless greed could be demonstrated by his unrestrained gluttony. And the lamentations of his starving, suffering family; those could be framed as social commentary.” 

Kip twiddled his fork. “I thought that might … well, interest you.” 

“Ahem,” Xin gestured dismissively. “My proclivities aside, the pastiche composition of the show works against it. If it’s supposed to be buffa, then why all the bel canto? If it’s supposed to be seria, then why undermine that with that bizarre side-story about the candy sale.” 

“The candy sale?” 

“Yes, that’s what the soprano secondo’s solo was about.” 

“Oh.” 

“The big number with the rising strings?” Xin realized she wasn’t being helpful and lowered her voice. “Again, the accents were very thick.” 

Kip had no words for that. They resumed their meal. 

After a few long minutes, Xin said, “The effects were nice.” 

“I had heard the effects were very … impressive.” 

Xin giggled. “That, they were.” 

Kip grinned, and Xin wondered if that was the first time tonight that she had seen him crack a smile this evening. She was pretty sure she saw him smile when he arrived to escort her back to the taxi. Just now, Xin was realizing that she hadn’t seen a smile like that in a long time. And with that realization, more emotions came: happiness, nostalgia, shame, regret, hope. 

Xin stood up. “Excuse me. I need to powder.” 

Kip nodded with an enthusiasm that Xin found endearing in its obsequiousness. “Should I ask for a dessert menu?” 

Xin shook her head. “No, let’s get the check. Let’s go home.”