September 13–18
By the time I met Figaro, his wife had left him. Unfortunately for Stella — not the subtlest of romancers — it was a case of unrequited love.
I can’t imagine what my neighbors thought. For the better part of a week my backyard was a symphony of “Stellaaaaaas” and “Figaro, Figaro, Figaroooooohs.” Here’s my friend Beth again, during intermission.
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