dim memory came to me of sitting in a music library a decade earlier, listening to an opera that I thought was terrible. “I remember listening to Tosca once, years ago,” I said. “It was so overblown.” A rather long pause ensued. Somewhere behind the lawyer, organizers urged people to take their seats. “Tosca is my favorite opera,” the lawyer said. It was all so deliciously awful: the mingling, how I was dressed, the futility of trying to meet anyone. Even when I tried to show interest in a person, I unwittingly flung an insult instead. I couldn’t help it: I laughed. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It
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