The Other Opera

We sat in Starbucks and stared out the window at it (Starbucks is always across from grand things and grand places). I know what’s wrong with the Japanese, she said. That. She gestured with an icy nod to the menacing fortress outside. That’s the imperial palace, I said, finally satisfied that my PhD in Japanese studies was coming in handy, the emperor lives somewhere inside. She smiled. Exactly. It’s the absent center. I glanced at her Chanel bag, and then at the Gucci one held by a woman sitting nearby who was pretending not be to listening to our conversation. I then nodded deeply in understanding. It started to rain and the imperial palace began to dissolve. She frowned. Can we stay until the rain stops? I don’t want my bag to get wet.