Page 91 of Two Chances With You

Then it’s my turn. I snap to attention, buy my tickets, and I have no doubts about my choice.

Gin is standing at the entrance to the theater with two big tubs of popcorn in her arms and a Coca-Cola sitting on a bucket nearby, with two straws poking out.

I take the Coke, I sip from a straw, and I walk around her. “Come on, let’s go.”

Gin follows me, taking care not to spill the popcorn. “Do you mind telling me which movie you picked?”

“Why? Even if I tell you, you’ll have something to say about it.”

“Me? I don’t know why you see things that way. It isn’t true. I’m someone who adapts.” Gin punches me in the shoulder. “Plus, I haven’t seen any of these movies. Neither the comedy, nor the rom-com, and not even the horror flick. They would all have gone perfectly.”

“Come on, the film is starting. Let’s go get our seats,” I say. And in an instant, we’re in the theater where they’re showing films from previous seasons. This is a new feature at the Warner multiplex.

Gin leans close to me and watches the film with one hand over her mouth. She’s curled up, chewing on her fingernails, and she cuddles close to me again.Message in a Bottle. Kevin Costner’s wife is dead, and he doesn’t want to date anyone new. He doesn’t want to resume his life. He writes letters and seals them in bottles that he tosses into the ocean, one after another.

Then someone finds that message in a bottle. A female journalist. The letter stirs her emotions, and it becomes a big topic of public interest.

The lights go up. Intermission, end of the first half. Gin laughs, sniffing loudly and covering her face with her hair to keep anyone from seeing her. She turns away and looks at me and then bursts out laughing again and sniffs some more.

“You were crying!” I say, pointing to the culprit.

“Well, so what? I don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

“Okay, but it’s just a movie.”

“Yes, and you’re just an insensitive clod.”

“Oh, I knew it. As usual, I’m to blame!”

Gin punches me in the shoulder. “You see, you’re not even trying to understand. Such a jerk! But I—”

“Shhh! Enough, the movie’s starting up again!”

And Gin slides back down in her seat, hugging me and laughing as she grabs my hand, which was wandering off in search of some other distraction.

Later, over a beer, “Did you enjoy it?” I ask.

“It was just beautiful. I’m still an emotional wreck.”

“But Gin, it’s too much!”

“Oh, what can I do about it? It’s just the way I am. Certainly, if he hadn’t drowned with the boat and all the rest…Now, just as he’d finally begun to be able to love again, just as he’d fallen in love with the journalist. Screenwriters are so mean.”

“No, why? It’s perfect! Now it’s going to be the journalist who writes love letters and puts them in the bottles, that way another guy will find them and the whole story starts over again. Or else she could put a lead weight in the bottles, that way they’ll wind up on the bottom of the sea, and Kevin Costner can read them.”

“Mamma mia. You certainly are macabre!”

“I’m just trying to take some of the emotion out of this stark drama you’re experiencing.”

“Well, Step, have you ever thought about…”

“About what?”

“About, I don’t know, writing a note or a poem…”

Actually, Ihadtried to write something for Babi. It was Christmas. I can remember it like it was yesterday. The sheets of paper crumpled under my desk. Desperate attempts to find the right words. Attempts suitable to someone drowning in a pool of desperation. Namely, me as I feverishly chased the impossible dream of winning back a love that was slipping through my fingers.

And then running into Babi with another guy and not being able to come up with even the simplest words. I don’t know, like,Ciao. Ciao, how are you doing? Ciao, it sure is cold. Ciao, it’s Christmas. Ciao, Merry Christmas. Or even worse,Ciao, I love you. What does any of that have to do with anything? Nothing, at least not anymore.

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