Emio Greco at the Opera House

I open the door but outside the air is the same temperature. No possibility of interchange. I lean on the wooden ledge with the bowl in both hands and can see it dropping on to the street below, just like I imagined throwing red wine on the artworks. I see myself doing more interesting things, things with consequences.

And earlier, I was captivated.

There's talk of him not being precise. It's the bull. He is the bull, non? But he's Italian. And the bullfight is Spanish. These are the conversations in my head. Or a tantrum. Not me. Him. Between the white lines of the runway. A tantrum played out on the tarquet. The music is Bolero but it's played at a distance at first, in the back room of a milk bar around the corner and across the park, at first. Faint. At first. I feel cheated and disinterested. But he is the bull like I want him to be. He's wearing a sheer dress, Signor Greco. The music is faint and the moves agressive, but controlled.

He prances like a pony and I think more of Lisa Torrance than of Kenny Drummond. He is a bull. Beautiful Kenny Drummond. Out of form to imagine that he could prance like a pony. What did he do? He sat in the well-designed chairs in the lounge room and drank beer as the sun came up.

And still the prancing evokes a picture of a Scottish girl telling a story of a boy named Kenny prancing like a pony behind a bar in Glasgow.

By the end the dress is plastered with sweat to his back in sculptural folds. Plastered in sculptural folds to his back with sweat? Plastered with sweat in sculptural folds to his back?