SALAMI

  “Come ooooooooon,” John says as his ass furtively adapts to the velvet seat. He looks upon the stage nervously. “What’s the point of this? What am I going to get from some Jabba the Hutt singing her ass off?”
  “John, you promised me you would see this,” Renée says. “It doesn’t hurt to have a little culture.” John groans, but she continues. “And that ‘Jabba the Hutt’ you’re talking about is one of the greatest opera stars around. She’s been playing Salome for years.”
  “Shouldn’t it be Salami?” John asks.
  “What?”
  “Isn’t that how it’s said—Salami? I mean, I was looking at the program and it says here that the opera’s in German. So I guess you’d pronounce it like it is in German, y’know?”
  “Um, sure.” Renée replies hesitantly.
  “What’s the story of this opera anyway?”
  “I thought you said you wanted to be surprised.”
  “I lied.”
  “Well, when was the last time you read the Bible?”
  “Is that what it’s about?”
  “Answer me.”
  “I dunno.”
  “Well, it’s about this—”
  The lights dim down before she can explain any further. The orchestra tunes and allows the audience to engage in quick chatter. John decides to resume the conversation. 
  “So what’s it about?”
  “A princess.”
  “Stop right there.” John suddenly resolves that this is a ploy to curb his virility. “There’s no way my first opera’s gonna be some bullshit fairy tale.”
  “Now you stop right there, John. I’m going to speak in terms you’ll probably understand. I paid a decent amount of money to spend what I thought would be a pleasant night for us. But you obviously think this is going to jeopardize the size of your balls, so you can just go back to—”
  Another interruption. The conductor, a frail but confident looking gentleman, enters the orchestra pit. Judging from the boisterous applause, he’s a big shot. So much of a big shot the applause lasts five minutes. When it finally dies down, the old man turns to his orchestra and raises his baton.
  For most of the opera, John fails to catch up on the action between the actors and reading the English supertitles on the seat in front of him. By the time he gets to the “Dance of the Seven Veils”, he is exhausted, unable to look forward to another pitiful antic the main character can fix up. Even if she’s stripping. But as the dance progresses, he cannot help but be amused. Here’s Salami shaking her ass like no tomorrow, ripping pieces of clothing to shreds as if she’s on fire. The unthinkable occurs: he starts liking it. He denies it, tries shutting his eyes, tries making up excuses. Maybe the lighting’s just hitting her in all the right places; maybe the drinks before the performance are beginning to kick in. Whatever the matter, he’s engrossed in the movement, in the music, in the marriage between the two. As they become more passionate, reckless, and fatigued, more clothing disappears. 
  “This is what’s been missing all my life.”
  When the last strip of clothing is shed, he is the first to stand up, roaring with applause. He no longer recognizes Salami as ‘Matila the Hutt’. She is the definition of a woman.
  Renée feels a little embarrassed; John appears to be reacting with too much enthusiasm. A man in the row behind her asks if this is her brother’s first time at the opera. She affirms this with a nod, and turns towards John in the midst of the audience’s wild applause.
  “The show’s not over, you know! There’s more!” She has to shout.
  “What else could there be?! It’s already the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
  “She makes love to a severed head!”
  John is shocked.