Someone gave my mother season tickets to the opera.
She went with my sister, or me, or one of her friends. Dad didn't care for opera, and they were both perfectly happy if he spent the evening at home with his dog and his histories, and she went off to enjoy the pleasures of Verdi and Puccini.
Then, one night, mother couldn't find anyone to go with. She told dad she was going by herself, and, when he expressed reservations, she told him that she had gotten to know two gentlemen who had the seats behind her, and she was certain that they would see her to her car.
Dad announced that he was taking mother to the opera.
My father sat through Donizetti's "Elixir of Love", to protect mother from two potential roue's. She was, at the time, 58, and she looked it. Dad was three years older, but it hadn't occurred to him that men might not find the woman he married attractive.
Mother's two friends didn't find women attractive. Fortunately, they didn't find dad attractive either.
Dad's description of the opera included the line, "And the balcony was too high for a John Wilkes Booth leap, so I was forced to endure."
The only thing that would have saved the performance for him was if two of the singers had a sword fight. Then dad could have critiqued the fencing. There are no swordfights in "Elixir of Love".
My parents didn't have the happiest marriage in the world, but my father sat through an opera, with no fencing, to protect my mother from two gay men, because he thought she was still the very beautiful lady he married. I think that has a lot to do with love.