Dina holds it together enough to crack a joke. ‘You mean we’re not going to the opera tomorrow?’ He’d forgotten. They have tickets to La Traviata. It’ll have to be for another time.
Otelo kisses his sleeping eight-year-old son on the head, and embraces his wife one final time. ‘Until Friday, my love. I’ll be here to have lunch with you.’ He exits the house with his uniform in a bag. He remembers, too late, he’s left his pistol behind. Walking back into the house, he sees his wife on their bed, arms wrapped around her knees, sobbing heavily.
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