Cinematic

It was a blind date. They met at an old historic movie theater. An old black and white movie was showing. “It’s different on the big screen,” he said. She said, “Okay” because the way his hair stood up made him look like a hero. She aimed to please, just like women did it in the old days. They passed on the concessions. The theater was full, mostly from the group home just off the highway. Weary aides held the arms of the loud adults, colorful in their mismatched clothes. Scolded them like naughty children. They took their seats. She looked at him, felt shy. Their knees touched. He changed his mind. He wanted popcorn. He handed her a bill, told her to hurry if she could. She heard a few insults as she stumbled through the aisle. When she got back, she threw herself into her seat with relief. Handed him the popcorn. Pocketed the small change. He stopped chewing. “Ugh,” he said, dramatically. “Too much butter.” He massaged her shoulder, asked too softly, “Would you mind?” She got up, took the popcorn he held out to her and stalked the aisle in the dark. She heard the tinny sound of old music and felt momentarily out of time. One of the adults from the group home sneered, “What’s her problem?” She threw the popcorn in the big trashcan at the concession stand. Pushed the heavy doors with both hands and headed outside. Her left shoulder was smeared with greasy butter that caught the light. The movie score would be stuck in her head all day. She imagined she was a damsel in distress. She willed the tears to her eyes. She heard the swoosh of cars and wondered where everyone might be going. It took her eyes longer than she thought to adjust to the light outside. Longer still, to the looks people gave her as she took long strides down the busy street. As though they knew the way the story began. And the way it ended, too.