by Holly Kerr
I wonder who she found to take my ticket for Come From Away tomorrow? Tonight, Freyka had made plans for dinner with one of her work friends; Amy was nice enough, but her husband was a bit of a bore. I’m more than happy not to have to meet them.
But what do I do? I don’t feel like going home for an evening of takeout, with Drogo’s sad eyes begging for a bite. When was the last time I did anything spontaneous? Something that hadn’t been planned out to the last minute? It’s not just Freyka who liked to organize my life; other girlfriends had left their mark as well.
As I walk past the movie theatre on the corner, I decide impulsively to go to a movie. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one in a theatre, preferring to watch Netflix from the comfort of my couch instead. Standing in front of the cashier, I scan the titles and, recognizing none, pick the one that is about to begin at five twenty. Ten minutes to get a snack and find my seat.
I stop at the concession stand, unsure of what to get. I’m unsure, period. This is new for me—being impulsive. Maybe I don’t do impulsive.
“Combo?” The teen at the cash has a bored expression that does nothing to hide the generous sprinkling of acne across his face.
“A Coke, please. And maybe some Nibs.” I fish a bag of candy out of the display and drop it on the counter.
With my drink in hand, I flash my ticket, feeling like I’m being judged by the employees, who aren’t much older than my students.
What if I see one of my students here?
I hunch into the collar of my jacket as I head to Cinema 3, taking a seat in the middle of a row, in the middle of the theatre. There are a handful of other moviegoers, but it is late afternoon on a Friday—most people would still be at work or heading home. It isn’t until I settle in with my large Coke and overpriced Nibs that I realize I know nothing about the movie I’m about to see.
The theatre darkens and I lean back to watch the endless commercials. The second trailer is an action-packed spy movie that’s right up my alley. As I watch the explosions onscreen, I notice a woman walk in out of the corner of my eye. She catches my attention because she’s juggling a huge bag of popcorn in one hand and a super-size drink in the other, with the straw coming out of a plastic Kylo Ren attached to the top.
There’s something about her…
I watch as popcorn drifts out of the bag. Her coat is white and looks like it’s about to start shedding. She decides on the row ahead of me, squeezing that coat between the seats with her back to me. Her blonde hair is caught up in two buns on the top of her head, like knobby antennas.
She’s almost right in front of me.
She’s not going to sit in front of me, is she?
But she does; I have four empty seats on either side of me, and the row in front of me is empty, and yet she makes a beeline for the seat directly in front of me.
At the last minute, she glances back at me. My heart catches as she blinks with surprise.
“Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”
Ruthie. No wonder she looks familiar. Even though it’s rude, I can’t help the grimace. “And it’s you.” Ruthie smiles and for a moment I think the theatre lights come on. But it’s only another explosion on the screen that haloes around her head. “I didn’t recognize you. Your hair.” I hold my fingers up like horns. “Cute.”
“I like it.” Thrusting her popcorn at me, she climbs over the seat with her long legs clad in rainbow-coloured leggings.
Is she going to sit—?
She drops into the seat beside me. “Don’t think you can steal my popcorn,” she threatens, shrugging off her white shaggy jacket.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Did you mean to sit beside me?”
“You’re alone. I’m alone. It seems only right.”
“Not really. I don’t even know you.”
“We met at Flora’s,” Ruthie says patiently. “You got some wine spilled on you and seemed very upset about it. I don’t know if you realized, but it did splash on my shoes. You can’t get anything out of green velvet, you know.”
I decide to ignore her version of what happened. “That will teach you to wear green velvet shoes to a party.”
“You didn’t like my shoes?”
“I never noticed your shoes. I was too busy trying to keep the wine off my shoes.”
“Shh,” says a voice from behind.
Ruthie looks over her shoulder with a questioning expression and smiles sardonically when she catches the eye of the woman who hissed. “She’s, like, ten rows away from us. How can she even hear us?” Ruthie leans her shoulder into mine but doesn’t bother to lower her voice.
“I think you’re supposed to whisper in the movies,” I hiss, hunching my shoulders. Why didn’t I go home to be with my dog?
“Do you always whisper in the movies?” Ruthie asks in her normal voice
“I don’t go to many movies,” I admit.
“You don’t go to movies?” Ruthie exclaims loudly, bringing about a rousing chorus of shushing behind us.
I sink lower in my seat and wish I’m anywhere else.
Chapter Seven
Ruthie
“This is the last movie I’d ever expect to see you in.” I lower my voice in deference to Trev’s whispering. “Not that I really expected to see you in a movie.”
“Doesn’t happen very often,” he mutters, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen like he’s pretending I’m not beside him.
I settle my elbow on the armrest between us, smiling as he leans away. I noticed him as soon as I came in, but it wasn’t until the last moment that I decided to sit with him. He looked awkward in his seat, glancing around as if he was about to be caught doing something wrong.
He looks uncomfortable, probably because I’m sitting beside him.
Serves him right. Flora always says no one can ever stay angry with me. If Trev thinks he can hold a grudge, he’s got another thing coming.
The credits begin and I get comfortable in my seat. Watching movies is one of my favourite things to do. I only have a few shifts at the Skin Shack before Christmas and I plan on spending my remaining time here. One thing Toronto has got over Niagara-on-the-Lake is the variety of movie theatres.
Trev keeps up the cold shoulder treatment for twenty minutes into the movie before he gives up and he leans over. “She looks familiar,” he whispers, gesturing at Emilia Clarke onscreen dressed in an elf costume.
“She should be if you’ve watched any of Game of Thrones.” This time, I keep my voice down, not wanting another public reprimand from eagle ears behind me.
“Khaleesi!” Trev shouts, then immediately hunches his shoulders. “Sorry. I never knew—didn’t think—”
“Then why did you come? It doesn’t really seem like your first pick for a movie.” This time I forget to whisper and I’m rewarded by another, louder shush.
“Later,” Trev hisses. “I have to watch Khaleesi.”
I sit quietly, shifting my popcorn so it’s not within reach of Trev’s wandering hands. I did tell him I don’t share, but I can’t understand why anyone would go see a movie without getting popcorn. There’s nothing like the buttery-salty taste of movie popcorn, made even better sitting in a darkened theatre, with an icy cold Coke to wash it down.
Trev glances over as I mash a handful of popcorn in my mouth. “That’s a big bag,” he whispers.
“I like my popcorn. And I don’t share.”
“I’m not asking to.”
“Maybe you’re not, but your nose is. It’s got to be going crazy with the smell of it.”
His mouth twitches at the corners. “It’s nice that you’re concerned about my nose.”
“I actually don’t care about your nose. You’re not getting my popcorn.” Defiantly, I take another handful out of the bag and shove it in my mouth. A few stray kernels don’t make it, and one falls down into the V of my sweater.
Trev’s gaze follows it down, before whipping up and away. “Are you always so selfish?”
�
�Why am I being selfish?”
“You sit down beside me, with an enormous bag of popcorn and don’t even offer me any.”
“I don’t share well with others,” I say in a haughty voice.
“With everything, or just popcorn?”
“Most things.” I finish my mouthful and wash it down with a slurp of my Coke. “I’m an only child. I was born selfish.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m very honest. It’s one of my best qualities.”
Trev barks a laugh. “Modest, too.”
He has a nice smile.
Before I can seriously consider how nice his smile is, I turn back to the movie. “Why didn’t you get your own popcorn?” I ask, leaning over so that my shoulder touches his.
“Because I wasn’t hungry.”
“Neither was I. You don’t need to be hungry to eat popcorn.”
He shifts in his seat and I hear the rip of plastic, joined by the sweet cherry smell of licorice. “I got Nibs,” he says. Even without looking, I can tell he’s smiling again.
Now I’m smiling because he’s smiling.
We sit quietly and watch the action unfold onscreen. He’s close enough so the warmth of his shoulder brushes against mine, and the scent of him mixes with the butter smell of the popcorn. I hum with enjoyment at my little good-smell bubble.
“Are you humming?”
I break off mid-hum. “No.”
“It sounds like a hum.”
I give him a sideways glance. “I hum when I’m happy,” I relent. Trev’s mouth quirks up again. This time I can’t help but notice how full his lips are. “It’s a good movie,” I say quickly, in case he gets other ideas. “I have my popcorn.”
“That’s all it takes to make you happy?”
“I’m a very low-maintenance type of girl.” He laughs again. “What’s so funny about that?”
“You’re not what I expected.”
I twist my face in a Duh expression. “Of course not. What’s the fun in that?”
~
“That was so good,” I say happily as the end credits fill the screen to the music of George Michael. “The twist was great, and it’s a happy ending, even though it wasn’t happy.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying,” I say as I surreptitiously wipe the tear that slides out of my eye.
“Are you one of these women who cry at happy endings?” Trev demands.
“Confession time.” I lean closer so my shoulder brushes his. “I cry over anything. Happy, sad, anything with an animal in it. Babies in diaper commercials. And I always, always cry when the loved ones show up on Survivor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Don’t you watch reality television?”
“Uh, no. Why would I?”
“Because it’s good. It’s pure entertainment—drama drama drama with a side of social commentary to make it insightful.” I reach for my coat, moving slowly so I have time to hear Trev’s response.
“You’re actually calling reality TV insightful? The shows with thirty women fighting over a man?” He slides well-muscled arms into his jacket.
I remember the well-muscled arms and chest and shoulders from the quick glimpse I got at the party. There were muscles all over the place.
“They don’t always fight over him,” I say, wrenching my mind away from shirtless Trev and back to the conversation. “A lot of times the women make lifelong friends.”
“And you know this how?” Still seated, Trev glances over at me with an amused expression.
“It’s obvious when you follow them on social media.”
Trev shakes his head. “You’re young.”
“You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.” I lift my chin. “I love my youthful appreciation of the world.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” He stands and I take that as my cue to go. Plus, the credits are finished. For some reason I want to prolong this…this whatever with Trev. He’s not what I expected.
Actually, he’s exactly what I expected. I just didn’t think I’d enjoy sitting with him as much as I did.
“Did you know all those songs were by George Michael?” I ask as I ease out of the row of seats. “Well, not the Christmas ones, but all the rest.”
“I can’t believe I watched a romance movie filled with Wham music,” he grumbles as he follows me down the stairs of the theatre.
I walk as slow as possible but Trev doesn’t attempt to speed up. “George Michael is different from Wham,” I point out.
“How do you know? Are you even old enough to know who he is?”
“Of course I know who George Michael is!” I clutch my chest for emphasis. “And how old are you, anyway? You can’t be more than a couple of years older than I am.”
“I’m thirty-four,” he admits. “How old are you?”
I tsk tsk him. “It’s not polite to ask a lady’s age. But seeing as no one would ever refer to me as a lady, I can tell you. Twenty-five and four months.”
“Why did you say you think I’m only a few years older than you? That’s nine years.”
“Yes, I can count that high, thank you very much. I was being polite.”
“So I look old?”
I hum non-committally.
“There’s that humming again.”
I glance over and pretend to study Trev, even I’ve been sneaking peeks at him during the whole movie. “Do you honestly want me to tell you that you look old? You don’t, not really. No receding hairline, no wrinkles. You just seem more mature.”
“Mature means old.”
“Not necessarily. M.K. is very mature and I don’t consider her old.”
“Because she’s only a few years older than you are. You’re a baby.”
“I take offense at that, coming from you.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. I’m usually a nice guy.”
As we pass by the line of Coming Soon posters on the way to the lobby, I give him a last sideways glance and keep my mouth shut since there’s no good way to respond to that remark.
We lag behind a group of octogenarians with their canes and walkers. “Did you like the movie?” I ask politely.
“Better than I expected,” Trev admits.
“You’ve got pretty low expectations today, if I surprised you, as well as the movie.”
I like it when he laughs. “I guess I do. Can we talk normally, or do you think we’ll get shushed again?”
“We’re safe. I think she’s gone. Besides, there’s no rule against talking while the end credits are on.”
“Is there a rule against talking during the movie? I guess it has been a while for me.”
“Really? We should go to another one.” The idea hits me with no rhyme nor reason, just like all my other great ideas.
“Uh…sure.”
“Don’t be scared, I’m not asking you for a date. We should go now.” With a quick glance up the corridor for well-meaning employees, I give Trev a shove towards the next door.
“What are you doing?” he hisses. “This has already started. We don’t even have tickets.”
“There’s twenty minutes left,” I whisper gleefully. “Let’s watch the end.”
Trev
And that’s how I end up seeing the end of Frozen 2.
Ruthie pulls me into the darkened theatre, corralling us into two seats in the front section. At first I sit ramrod straight, inwardly cursing the bad karma that brought Ruthie into my life, afraid I’m about to be dragged out in disgrace by some acne-faced teen who might have been one of my students. I keep looking over my shoulder but the rest of the moviegoers are fixated on the screen, even cheering at times, and no one seems to have noticed us.
The front section is empty and as I finally let myself relax into my seat, it feels like we have the place to ourselves. Except for the hundred or so people behind us, but no one is paying us any attention.
I lean over to Ruth
ie, close enough for the wisps of her hair to brush my cheek. “Do you do this a lot?” I whisper.
She turns to respond and for a split second it’s like we’re about to kiss. Her lips are now bare of her bright lipstick, and open in a wide smile. “Never,” she breathes, her eyes dancing.
I pull my gaze back to the big screen.
Who is this girl?
And she is a girl—flighty, flamboyant…fun. The one thing Ruthie is, is fun.
I settle back into my seat for the conclusion of the movie as Ruthie keeps eating her popcorn.
For a cartoon, it’s pretty good.
As the final song swirls around us and moviegoers begin to file out of the theatre, I turn to Ruthie. “Is it wrong that I might need to see the beginning of that?”
She laughs, her face open with delight. “And maybe the first Frozen? Unless you had a girlfriend drag you to it, I bet you haven’t seen it.”
The mention of a girlfriend is a dash of cold water. “No.” I stand up and Ruthie looks surprised.
“You don’t want to finish the song?”
“I’m good to go.”
I follow her out of the theatre, passing by the staff member holding a garbage bag with a slight twinge of guilt.
“Don’t feel bad,” Ruthie says as we reach the lobby filled with singing children, some wearing Frozen costumes. At least I think they’re costumes. “The theatres don’t make much money from ticket sales so it’s not like we’re ripping them off.”
“How do you figure that?”
She veers to the left to avoid a little boy in the middle of a meltdown over a dropped bag of popcorn and ends up walking backwards in front of me. Instinctively, I reach for her arm as she swerves again, this time missing an older couple with matching walkers.
“I played defense in hockey,” she explains, still walking backwards. She dodges a woman with six children clustered around her.
Six. Hopefully they don’t all belong to her.
“Hockey? I thought you’d be into baseball, like the rest of your family.” I breathe a sigh of relief as she swings around beside me again.