Red Opera Lady

I've landed a job at an opera house where Jor is, of course, the prima donna. Unfortunately, I was too busy scurrying around the orchestra pit and the dressing rooms to take much note of the performance itself.
At times it seemed that my job was to be the opera house mouse: the pace at which I whizzed through each room was astounding. The rehearsal rooms with open violin cases and lanky trombonists opened into the smokey office of the opera house manager. Women in velvet robes with ruddy arms, rubbing powdered elbows in the w.c. Waxed moustaches grazing highball glasses at a brass bar, suspiciously intimate with their smuggled cigars. The silence of polished black dress shoes as they crush a relentless red carpet.
Rolling red carpets! From the ticket booth to the foot of the orchestra pit! Red silk walls! Every lip of every banister, every lobe of every ear, every cuff over every shirt tipped with Gold!
Red and gold....
It should be mentioned that the audience is dwelling in the year 1883, while the next person that i encounter is clearly contemporary, as i also seem to be.
In one of the private rooms reserved for parties, a couple in their 50's is arguing. They are both apparently employed by the theatre (writers or directors of some sort?) and are oblivious to the performance happening. Indeed, they are wrapped up in a marital battle.
"You're disgusting! What ever possessed you to say something like that!" The man seems to be a perfect asshole, keeps berating his wife in this way. She falls apart during his tirade, and when he leaves, practically collapses on a floor cushion, next to a low table with a glass top.
I immediately sit on the floor next to her. I feel the floor, as if inhabiting my body for the first time in this dream. Admiring the jewel tones of her skirts and shoes through the glass table, I form the opinion that she seems too adorable and intelligent to be treated this way by her husband. I tell her so, I let her cry over it. She comes to after a while and a bond is recognized when she stops crying. We both look up, into the height of the room that surrounds us, into the baroque painted ceiling, and laugh at the fake clouds.