Ah, the opera.
A safari for the senses. Balthazar, being a sensualist in all areas of life, liked to close his eyes and let the music wash over and through him; rich, authoritative bass strings seemed to grip his heart in their hands, the mellow tremble of his ribcage in time with the music; meanwhile, tiptoeing flute notes danced behind his eyes with the youth of children and the grace of ballet dancers, light and sweet.
His senses sharper and more precise than a human’s, they keened in to sounds that another audience member wouldn’t. When the songstress cried a harmony, he heard all the sounds that didn’t exist; not just the piercing G minor, but a spectrum of other sounds, her silk dress flirting against her skin, her heart flutter against her ribs and two notes outside the human range of sound that he couldn’t describe. Of course, he never listened to these things normally: as an angel in a human vessel, you learned to filter, or the sounds would drive you crazy. But at the orchestra, a feast of sounds, he chose to hear.
Unfortunately, like mediocre sex and most drugs, it was over far too quickly, and soon the large room was invaded by the clumsy sound of flesh against flesh, an unrythmic chorus of applause.
He opened his eyes and joined the polite clapping, pretending to pay attention to the comments of the woman beside him with a lazy nod. He brought them along, his band of followers, for the afterparty, not for their company in intelligent pleasure. They lacked the poetry of the music, although they made up for it in flesh.
He sighed and rose from his seat, making his way to a large, opulent room at the back of the building where he would go and socialise. There was good wine, and sometimes, interesting people. Two of his favourite things.