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A few days later, Dalton and I arranged a date to go and see the French modern classic that he had never heard of. It always amused me when people didn’t know something that I considered to be common knowledge, because I had spent so many years of my childhood not knowing what other people were going on about, that I made a concerted effort to keep up to date with TV and movies, for those were the things that had been denied me when I was a child. Much of my life had been filled with fiction, no doubt due to my parent’s insistence that I use my imagination, and I wondered if Dalton’s words had weight to them; when he had suggested that I wasn’t being successful at my job, because it simply didn’t hold passion for me. It certainly didn’t allow me to indulge my creativity, and I did find my mind wandering, m
ore often than not, but I had no idea what else I was supposed to do and I didn’t have the confidence to start from scratch.
I made my way to the Patchwork Theatre, which derived its name from the different colored bricks that made up the building, making it stand out from the rest of the street. It was something of a cultural landmark and was run by an old man and his granddaughter, who were lovely people, and clearly had a deep appreciation for cinema of all types. They rarely showed new movies, but they kept a steady run of classics and hidden gems, that kept a small but loyal crowd coming back. I’d been going there all my life, so I was a regular, and Mel, the granddaughter, gave me a sly smile when she saw me meet Dalton.
The lobby was small and filled with the aroma of popcorn. We walked into the theatre and grabbed a couple of seats towards the back. It was the busiest I had ever seen it, probably because Amélie was a film that more people had heard of, than most of the ones shown at the Patchwork Theatre.
I felt a little embarrassed when I saw Dalton, as I’d obviously indulged myself in a fantasy of him, so I blushed when he hugged me and I was extremely glad that mind reading wasn’t possible, as I think I might have died had he known what had been going through my mind. Perhaps some secrets were acceptable after all. He smelled good, and wore a plaid shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the base of his neck. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms and he looked more relaxed than he did at work. We sat beside each other. The seats were so small that our elbows rested against each other and I found the feeling of him to be quite relaxing.
Usually, when I watched a film I was entirely transfixed on the big screen but, on this occasion, I found my gaze drifting between the screen and Dalton. I was pleased to see that he laughed at the right moments and seemed to enjoy himself, because I hated the thought that the only reason he watched this was because he felt he had to in order to spend time with me. Because of this, I wasn’t as immersed in the film as I usually was, but it was okay, because I’d seen it before and I liked surreptitiously watching Dalton. He caught me watching him a few times and offered a smile in return, before his gaze returned to the screen.
During the film I felt the strong urge to be closer to him. It was as though I had approached a precipice and was ready to fling myself off into the unknown, but I was held back by an invisible tether. All I had to do was twitch my fingers, but thoughts rolled around in my mind and I couldn’t help but be afraid of moving too quickly, of taking too big a risk, of feeling him pull away, just as I reached out to him.
In the end, I didn’t need to. Dalton’s hand took mind, confident and assured. I smiled, as delight washed over me, and breathed in deeply, loving the feeling of how his huge hand enveloped mine. When he squeezed my hand it sent a shiver through me, and I couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the film at all.
*
When the credits rolled and the lights came up, making the darkness recede, I was afraid that Dalton would take away his hand and this magical moment had only existed within the intimacy of the cinema, but Dalton kept hold of my hand and we made our way outside, blinking at the sunlight that seemed more vibrant than when we had entered.
“So what do you usually do after you see a film?” he asked.
“I usually just go home,” I said.
“Don’t you like talking about it?”
“I do, but usually I come to the cinema by myself.”
“Oh. I’ve not heard of many people doing that. Come on, let’s go and grab a drink.”
He led me down the street to a bar that was alive with the soft murmur of chatter. He ordered himself a beer, while I had some wine, feeling as though I should get something a little more adult than orange juice. We settled into a small table tucked away in the corner.
“It’s not as weird as you think,” I said defensively.
“I never said it was. There’s no judgment here. You do what you have to do, it’s not like you’re hurting anyone.”
“No, it’s just that a lot of people look at me strangely when I tell them, and I’ve never understood why. People watch films at home alone, all the time, and it’s not like you can talk to your friends during a movie anyway.” He seemed amused by my tone and I stopped myself from going into a full on rant, changing the subject by asking him what he thought about the movie. We discussed it for a while and I found him to have some engaging opinions, that made me view some aspects of the film in a different way.
“This is much better than when I manage to drag Jennifer to see a film. Half the time she never pays attention,” I said. Dalton inclined his head and thanked me for the compliment, and soon enough the conversation turned to other matters. I was pleased that we’d picked up from the last time we’d met; there was no awkwardness and, even when there were moments of silence, they were comfortable, where we could simply enjoy the company of each other.
“I was interested in something you said at the diner; you mentioned that your father got wind of a rumor that he became obsessed with. What was that?” Dalton asked. I was a little disappointed that he wanted to ask about my parents again, because, quite frankly, I didn’t consider them to be a part of my life anymore. The way I saw it they had always held me back and never put my well-being above their ideals. Childhood had been a nightmare, not because of anything I had done, but all because of the way they chose to make us live. I often wondered what I would have been like had I been able to make friends more easily. And, usually, the more I revealed about my parents, the stranger people thought me.
“Do you promise you won’t laugh?”
“I’ll try,” Dalton said, and then followed it up by saying that he would take it seriously.
“My dad was always into strange and mysterious things. He was convinced that there were conspiracies all over the place, and that there were plenty of things hidden from us. The books he wanted to write always dealt with lost civilizations or the hidden secrets of the world, and it only got worse as he got older. He never trusted conventional wisdom, even though he could never give me a solid reason why he believed that things were being covered up. Whenever he heard the whisper of a new rumor, he latched onto it like a hawk and searched as much as he could. Most of them were strange little conspiracy theories, but then, one day, he got wind of this story that he seemed convinced was real.”
“What was it?”
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to give as much preamble as possible, because I hated even saying the words to anyone, lest they think me insane.
“You know how, in our mythology, there are supernatural creatures who can shift into different things, like werewolves?” I asked. Dalton nodded. “Well, Dad heard reports that there were lion shifters living in the country and he was transfixed by them. He started to read up on every scrap of information he could and said that discovering them was going to be the greatest achievement of his career. He said he wanted to make the discovery so that he could write a book about them and that was going to be his magnum opus, that it was exactly what he had been waiting for and it felt as though this was his purpose. Mom even started doing some paintings of men shifting into lions and the two of them became obsessed.”
“But you didn’t?”
“Unlike them, I live in the real world,” I sneered. “But look. Whatever. They had this little obsession, and nothing was going to stop them from going after the truth, but I certainly wasn’t going to get mixed up in it. And given that Dad still hasn’t published his book, I’m pretty sure they’re just on a wild goose chase.”
“So you don’t think there’s any truth to it at all?”
