(no subject)
Charles Monroe is not usually interrupted in the middle of his evening by the bar appearing in the men's restroom at the Metropolitan Opera. He's less irritated than amused at it happening, though, and so he continues in, reaching up to his throat to pull the collar of his shirt undone, tie--formal, black bow--swiftly pulled open. They're not uncomfortable as such, but the idea of tying a very small nose around his throat has never struck him as completely sane. Still, dress codes are dress codes.
He'll just be over here, shucking his jacket and sitting in a far more comfortable chair than the one he was in twenty minutes ago.
He'll just be over here, shucking his jacket and sitting in a far more comfortable chair than the one he was in twenty minutes ago.