Saturday, August 11, 2012

Just the Ticket

A cold wind sends the rain down onto us in gusts; making the air breathe like a drown victim, resigned to its fate. We are all huddled in front of the Elysian Movie House, beneath a silver and forest canopy which yawns from cracked and stained bricks, painted white to give it that touch of class it couldn't manage on its own.
People are chatting and giggling, but a patient smile plays on her theater curtain-red lips. Bits of rain find us, and as a drop kisses the corner of her mouth, all color is drained from my vision.
In that moment, we are a second act from some early noir film I've never seen. Her lips so full and sudden. Her hair is the Betty Page sort of clean that appears to have been drawn into place with a fine pen and expensive black ink. We look at each other with knowing eyes. Her teeth are straight and mine are a bit crooked, her teeth are straight in a way that tells me that she could do much better than me. The cadillac crash of my heart in it's cage, beneath a thin jacket that looks nice, but is not appropriate for this sort of weather. My mind reels with all the quiet intensity of a turbine engine.
I can't help but smile back, and the gold of her eyes sets the rest of the world on color. She is reaching out for my hand. I could die.
My hand rises to meet hers and she plucks a ticket from it. Standing there, just in from the rain, in her ebony blazer with the white blouse, she tells me:
"Theater nine."
"Thanks." I say, and make my way to the popcorn.