What do you normally do in 24 hours? What is your average day.
It is all rather unremarkable, but here for your reference is yesterday’s itinerary:
3-4 a.m. Rise. Regret this decision. Ingest caffeine.
4:15 a.m. Feed and praise the cat.
4:30 a.m. First rounds about the opera.
4:45 a.m. Deposit chocolates in box five for Antoinette Giry.
5:30 a.m. Rounds complete; return home.
5:33 a.m. Belatedly notice I have neglected to wear shoes for rounds.
5:34 a.m. Belatedly realize that this is likely advantageous, as it reduces noise.
5:35 a.m. Absentmindedly wonder if rogue maintenance workers have seen the Opera Ghost clad in his stocking feet on the rafters.
5:36 a.m. - 1:45 p.m. Compose. Occasional cat-praising breaks.
1:47 p.m. Cat-praising breaks evidently do not occur often enough; cat irritably swats over inkwell, damaging the fifth movement.
1:50 p.m. - 3:00 p.m. Obliged to rewrite fifth movement with one hand; the other steadily pets the cat to prevent further messy incidents. Cat purrs contentedly. Cat owner experiences a fuzzy, pleasantly warm feeling somewhere in the region of his rib cage.
3:01 p.m. Ingest sustenance. Cat wanders off, likely bent on destroying prized possessions.
3:03 p.m - 3:30 p.m. Answer correspondence, including one from Giry: “Eat these chocolates yourself–you look a fright. Have also included baguettes. Eat immediately. -A.”
3:40 p.m. Post response: “Do not tell me what to do. -E”
3:50 p.m. Receive her response: “Do not fuck with me, Erik. Eat the goddamn chocolates, or so help me. -A.”
3:56 p.m. Oblige out of mild fear; do not wish to repeat the Groin Incident. Consume three chocolates; leave the rest for Christine, Antoinette, and her daughter. Keep bread. They once rioted for that sort of thing, you know.
4:00 p.m. Wards blare. An intruder? I no longer relish murder on a regular basis. Close eyes and will visitor away.
4:03 p.m. Wards continue to blare. Sigh heavily. Retrieve lasso. Cat blinks at me approvingly from atop the divan. Such a good girl.
4:05 p.m. Worse than an intruder; Nadir.
4:06 p.m. “How the devil do you continually best the traps? Must I simply shoot you on sight?”
4:06 p.m. “You only ate three chocolates, Erik.”
4:06 p.m. “Leave at once, Daroga.”
4:06 p.m. “Must I eat the rest myself?”
4:07 p.m. “Abscond, flea.”
4:07 p.m. “Admittedly, I did sample the almond toffees. Delicious. Here, take the box.”
4:07 p.m. “Do not hand me–”
4:07 p.m. “I brought shiraz.”
4:07 p.m. “I suppose you’d like a medal. Goodb–”
4:08 p.m. Daroga steps over threshold; settles comfortably on divan. Cat purrs happily and curls into a ball in his lap. Am now obliged to entertain. Would rather contract the bubonic plague in 14th century Venice.
4:15 p.m. Sample shiraz. Grudgingly admit it is pleasantly inoffensive.
4:15 - 5:00 p.m. - Grudgingly enjoy reminiscing. Daroga is maddeningly reasonable and affable as always. Multiple inquiries after my health and potential new crimes. Lie splendidly.
5:01 p.m. “Liar.”
5:01 p.m. “Drunkard.”
5:02 p.m. After several drinks, Daroga admits to a romantic affection for Antoinette. Admires her “spunk.”
5:03 p.m. Dissolve into hysterics; may have ruptured a vital organ.
5:04 p.m. “Oh, shut up, Erik.”
5:05 p.m. Bliss–Christine arrives.
5:05 p.m. Lovely confusion upon her face. “What’s so funny?”
5:05 p.m. “Nothing, Mademoiselle Daae–your friend here has had a tad too much to drink.” Nadir says it rather too quickly.
5:06 p.m. “Abominable liar.”
5:06 p.m. Inexplicably decide to refrain from voicing Nadir’s confession, likely due to several empty glasses discarded on the table before me. Feel uncharacteristically charitable. In horrifying danger of adding a pep to my step.
5:07 p.m. Nadir leaves. Charms Christine, as always. He shoots a warning glance my way. I raise my brows suggestively beneath the mask; he cannot tell, of course. Realize I may be a tad drunk.
5:07 p.m. Christine squints up at me. “Are you drunk?”
5:07 p.m. “No,” I say seriously, and then plant a firm kiss on her rosebud lips. She laughs, silvery, full–ah, bliss!
5:10 p.m. “Did you eat the chocolates Antoinette sent you?”
5:10 p.m. "Oh, for the love of–”
5:45 p.m.- 7:00 p.m. Lessons. A loose term, now–she is more than adept. Ecstasy of that voice. She makes several insightful suggestions as to the direction of my score. She laughs, adds the odd dry comment here and there. Moves from Pamina to the Queen with ease. Brushes my hand fondly with her own. Another kiss. I could die in peace.
7:15 p.m. Break. I watch her leave the room like a lovesick idiot. The cat trots after her; they have reached a tenuous truce.
7:45 p.m. Returns. Announces she has prepared dinner. Darling thing.
7:50 - 9:00 p.m. Dinner surprisingly enjoyable. She has only burned a quarter of it this time. Progress. Easy conversation. Ah, my love. The cat knocks over a candelabra. I do not notice until the flame reduces a bit of the rug to a pile of cinders. Stomp it out hurriedly. Little damage. Christine scolds her; hissing ensues. Hairball deposited on hem of Christine’s dress. Truce shattered.
9:00 - 10:00 p.m. Return to rehearsals. Mastery on her part. I’ve nothing more to teach her. I tell her as much. Why, I wonder, does she persist in this ill-advised affection? Response: Kisses. She pulls away slowly, murmurs, “The wise know there is always more to learn.” She sounds, I tell her, like an old philosopher; why the sudden introspection? “Wine,” she says by way of explanation, giggling, breaking the sudden gravity. It is delicious.
10:05 p.m. She departs.
10:06 p.m. She returns. “I’m going with you,” she says.
10:06 p.m. I frown. “Where?”
10:06 p.m. She waves a hand absentmindedly. “When you go skulking about the opera tonight.”
10:06 p.m. “I do not skulk,” I say as I skulk to the closet to retrieve my cloak.
10:06 p.m. “I’m going with you,” she says.
10:07 p.m. - 2 a.m. She does.