Preoccupied with a croissant and his own black coffee, Christian didn't look up when the door opened. He didn't even notice the familiar strains that were being hummed -- not at first, at least.
His eyes had been far away, watching again as she dropped her head back into a shower of rose petals, just before she fell. The image was burned into him; he didn't think he'd ever get free of it. He'd forgotten to chew, and the bite of croissant was soggy and weighted on his tongue.
By degrees, the tune filtered into his mind and drew him away from the stage of the Moulin Rouge. Christian chewed again, then swallowed, and washed the bite down with a careful sip of coffee. He turned to find the person humming those bars from La Traviata, and was surprised to find Fred herself. She was wearing the clothing from this time that looked like pyjamas more than something someone would wear out.
But times were different now. Christian stood from his table and circled around to the other chair where he had not been sitting. He drew that wooden chair out from under the table and waited behind it, waited for Fred to turn around so he could invite her to sit with him for a while.
He hadn't gone to the opera, but not because he didn't enjoy it. He just didn't need the reminder... But he still wanted to hear about it.