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“What makes you say that?” At this point, I want him to keep speaking, just to try to pinpoint his accent for certain. He’s all soft s’s and rolls over his r’s. Growing up with my Greek family members exposed me to the life of a polyglot.
“Well, if you were, you wouldn’t be here waiting on someone who is very clearly an asshole.” This time, when he smiles, I can see the lines around his eyes, and I wonder how many years it took for them to get there.
But I smirk, finding his logic flawed. I just wanted to get laid and make sure the person attached to the penis wasn’t a complete moron.He doesn’t need to know that, I think to myself, finding this exchange entertaining.
“Did you want popcorn? Candy?” He flirts momentarily with each word, speaking rapidly like he doesn’t have time to taste each syllable.
“I…wasn’t aware we were watching the movie together.” I peer around the empty theater.
“If you have a better idea, let me know,” he tells me, leaning toward me so a few tendrils of his dark hair brush against his forehead.
“Italian?” I think out loud, the lack of anHin his pronunciation giving him away.
“The movie? Sure, yes.”
“No, you,” I clarify, watching his lack of reaction.
“Once upon a time.” He steps back down the aisle. “Pick a seat. I’ll be back.”
He’s walking back through the door, in spite of the way I start to object, my hands lifted. They fall to the sides as I watch the door to the theater swing shut.
It’s eerily silent in here, only the slight sound of machinery humming from somewhere in the building.
I give the door one last glance before I shrug, hoping he picks something good before I head toward the middle of the theater seats. Because everyone knows the middle is the perfect place to sit.
My eyes flit to the screen as credits start and music swells, filling the empty space.
Maybe homeboy hadn’t shown because classic movies aren’t his thing. Maybe he’s more of a Michael Bay fan; an uber douche who sprays his junk with Axe body spray and thinks common courtesy is for “pussies.”
Either way, I type out afuck youand send it before blocking his number. The smirk on my face is interrupted by the strange once-Italian man coming down the aisle. He makes his way to the open seat next to me and I catch sight of the peanut M&Ms tucked in his arm.
“I’m surprised you chose this area. The back is much better,” he tells me as he settles in beside me, setting the cup in his hand into the cupholder between us like he hadn’t just said something completely ridiculous.
As the lights dim, I stare at him, wondering where the hell he even came from. Italy, apparently. Aside from that, had I dreamed him up? Was my magical pussy to blame for his sudden appearance?
Was this divine feminine sorcery? Like my horniness and desperation had put out some kind of signal.
“Do people not watch classic movies anymore?” I mutter, reaching for the candy he holds out toward me. I tear the corner of the bag open and pop an M&M in my mouth, feeling his gaze on me as I chew.
“With so many newer options to choose from, they’re often overlooked,” he muses as I glance at him just as he turns to look at the screen. In the dark, I can only just make out his beard and the way his lips slightly purse as he focuses on the screen.
“You aren’t a fan of the newer stuff?” I ask, hating the Boston cadence that peeks out when I don’t actively try to hide it.
“I don’t discriminate,” he says, looking at me again and though it’s dark, though I don’t even know his name, I find the innuendo in his tone.
“You don’t think it’s strange that we’re the only people here?” I ask, unsure how to handle his braveness. I’m far better with the fumbling young men who are intimidated by my lack of desire for their affections.
“Perhaps we’re the last romantics in this city,” he murmurs, and I train my eyes on the screen, even as I fight the smile that wants to spread across my lips.
Romantic isn’t a word anyone back home would use to describe me. But that’s one of the reasons I came here; to become someone else while simultaneously hiding myself amongst hundreds of others trying to do the same thing.
After being in my mother’s haphazard care before she became sober, my sister and I entered young adulthood with our skin marked by the shrapnel of our volatile childhood.
And once I could, I left. I damn near ran, leaving my little sister to fend for herself. Guilt claws at the base of my throat but I swallow it down, choosing to chase it away with another piece of candy.
For the next hour, in spite of the glances I steal, we remain silent as the movie plays. The once upon an Italian snorts at certain parts, his eyes crinkled with mirth. And I want to know how he can smile like that, sitting next to a stranger.
Not everyone is as scared as you are,I try to reason with myself as he looks at me, his smile still firmly in place.
