walking on opposite directions to their respective classes. God, he was beautiful. The square jaw, the dark hair and a smile that never failed to reduce him to an incoherent idiot. Sometimes he fancied that Josh would often look his way too. Perhaps it was all just wishful thinking. The most excruciating torture yet was catching Josh naked in the gym showers once. He was dumbstruck by the sight but somehow he managed the wherewithal to step back behind one of the lockers even as his gaze lingered hungrily on Josh's incredible body - a massive chest topped by nipples so pink and peppered with hair, his magnificently muscled arms gracefully moving a towel along his wet torso down to his impressive cock and balls hanging heavily between wide thighs and then around to his mouthwatering ass.

"Unfortunately, he turned out to be little more than a common opportunist. He knew only how to spend her money and nothing at all of decency nor honor." Her tone turned perceptibly melancholic, "She had just come off a disastrous turn as Brunhilde. Disastrous because it was completely wrong for her but by this time she was totally taking her career for granted. They had already been living together and she was so in love with that man and just wanted to be married. In fact, she had already announced her impending retirement, agreeing to one last performance as Lucia. And it was just hours before curtain when she walked in on him with another woman in their bed." She paused while he waited with bated breath. "She did make it to the theater on time and from here the stories vary. Some who were in the audience that night swore they witnessed her literally go insane as she was delivering the first E flat during the mad scene. Others claim it started in the first act where she sings of having seen a ghost by the fountain."

"Regnava nel silenzio," he murmured.

She nodded. "Naturally, this was all on hindsight, after everyone learned what had happened. So convincing was her final performance that everybody just assumed that art was imitating life."

"But did she…really lose her mind?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "Love's been known to do a lot worse. Later, there were stories of hysterics in public places, but stories unsubstantiated and far too many to be truly believed. She pointedly avoided people from then on. She moved around Europe for a while staying with close friends like the Baroness Elsie Deslandes but too many people knew or had heard the stories. It became impossible for her to live there without people gawking at her for all the wrong reasons. That's when she decided to move down here. She took ownership of this house, refurbished everything from cellar to garret, and turned it into a hotel for people like her, people who came here to disappear."

The woman stood up. "And what about you, young man, what's your story?"
He looked guiltily at his shoes. "I'm not part of any stories. I tell them. I'm a writer."

"You're a writer!" she clasped her hands in glee. "Of course! New Orleans is the best place for stories to be born. It practically can't be helped - duels of honor, river pirates, prostitutes, vampires, ghosts, magic."

"Demented opera singers?" he offered, not unkindly.

She laughed. "Well certainly this hotel is just brimming with stories waiting to be told."

"Actually I'm just here to do