The old woman set aside a yellowed, dog-eared script atop a tower of books by her chair. She sat back and rested her head on a well-worn spot in the recliner, her short, wavy gray hair flattened. Her name, Grace Averill, and a date of June 1957 were scribbled on the script’s first page, A Marriage Proposal, by Anton Chekov.

With a groan, Grace hoisted herself up from the seat and straightened her back. She shuffled to the stove, closed the oven, and turned it off. Afterward, Grace placed a kettle on the burner and went to the record cabinet nearby. She grunted, groaned to herself with the movements and fell into a chair to inspect the records. Her arthritic fingers withdrew and returned several records until she gazed at the sleeve of Carmen the Opera, but the record slid out with a jagged edge. Grace inspected the damage, brought her hand to her lips, and her lined eyes watered. In an instant, she smiled to herself and stuck an index finger in the air. After searching her collection more, she selected another record and slipped it under her arm. 

Forty-five minutes later, Grace was wrapped in her wool coat, hat, and snow boats and had descended the four flights of stairs from her walk-up. Immediately, a man with earbuds watching his phone walked into her. He caught her as she tipped and excused himself. After she had steadied herself, he continued walking.

Grace shuffled to the busy street corner and began crossing the four-lane intersection with the crowd. When the red seconds ticked to zero, she had only reached the median. A steady hand took her elbow and guided her the rest of the way. This man wore white headphones that looked like plastic earmuffs to Grace. She smiled at him, and the young man nodded in acknowledgment. From there, Grace took the bus several blocks to Washington Square and walked to the Record Reaper store on Sixth Avenue. The store’s entrance bells announced her presence, and a young woman with fire-engine red hair, pierced ears, eyebrows, and bottom lip welcomed her. In front of her and along all the walls were rows of records.

“Hi, Grandma,” she said to Grace. She snapped her gum and continued smiling and chewing. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Hi doll. I’d like to trade,” Grace said, sliding her offering across the glass counter.

“What do you have today?” the store clerk asked while she examined the record. “Antonio Janigro, huh? A cellist?”

“And a great one. It pains me to bring him here.” Grace put a hand over her heart. “But an even bigger favorite has met its end.” She spoke as if the words carried a great weight from her.

“What are you hoping to trade for?”

“Carmen. Somehow, it’s broken.”

The clerk typed something from the record into the computer and then turned to Grace, the smile gone. “I can’t give you much for this one. Maybe three dollars in store credit.”

“Such a shame. I watched this musician play in 1957 with the Philharmonic Orchestra. I was twenty-three.” 

The girl didn’t respond. “What makes Carmen more special than this guy?”

“I’m sorry I had to choose. But opera stirs something inside of me. It could be for you, too. The words become part of the music. Love’s fickleness is the essence of Carmen. You don’t even have to fully understand the story or the language. The tone of it still makes you feel something.”

“I know what you mean,” the girl said. “Somewhat,” she added.

“‘Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame,’” a deep voice said from behind, startling Grace. He stood lanky like a teenager, but much older, with sunken eyes, a cropped white beard, a plaid wool jacket, and a knitted hat. A guitar case was strapped to his back.

Grace tilted her head to one side and responded, “‘Love is a gypsy child that follows no rules.’”

“One of the greatest operas of all time,” he said to her. “Ever been in love like that?”

Grace cocked her stiff neck back and laughed. She smiled broadly, cracking her bright red lipstick. “More than once.”

“Oh?” he said, playfully taken aback.

“And not always with a person. I fell in love with theater so much I ran away from home the day after my high school graduation.”

The girl behind the counter grinned. “You’re rebellious,” she said.

“It was my mother’s fault, really,” Grace said.

“It always is,” the man said.

“We used to listen to Live at the Met every Sunday night on the radio. The whole family, no matter our differences, sat around and listened. Everything that came out of that show transported me somewhere else.”

“Do you still go to the opera?” the girl asked.

“Can’t afford it,” Grace said, shaking her head at the counter. 

“I might be looking for someone to accompany me,” the man said, eyebrows raised. Grace’s mouth was agape. No words came. She watched as he offered her a crumpled receipt and a pencil from the counter.