Page 4 of Another Life

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 andthinks common courtesy is for “pussies.” I ought to thank him for potentially sparing my pH balance.

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 as he holds up a cup and a bucket of popcorn.

“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 peoplehere?” 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.

“How can you not be a romantic when movies like this exist?” he asks, his hands gesturing in front of him.

I shrug, wanting to confess that I’m not a romantic at all. Just hiding in the dark, horny and afraid of what some college-aged asshole might do to my heart, given the opportunity.

“Are you very romantic?” I ask, wondering if he believes in red roses and love letters.

“I haven’t been in quite a long time,” he answers me, facing the screen again. He’s sitting easily, his elbows resting on the armrests, so close I can smell the scent of his soap. Perhaps his shampoo?

A clean, manly scent that probably has some sort of nonsensical name. Midnight Dream. No, Forest Musk.

“Must be lonely,” I say from personal experience, pulling myself from my thoughts.

He shakes his head, still staring at the screen.

“You don’t need romance for sex,” he clarifies, and my focus is jerked back to the screen as I try to digest his response.

The words are a straight shot to my libido and the desire to find out what his brand of sex is like is immediate. Does he take his time? Is his tongue as clever with foreplay as it is with pronunciation?

Before I can sink so far into my seat that I disappear into the floor, the credits roll, and the theater lights come on.

“Well,” he starts, standing to face me. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

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