Moving Pictures

‘Come with me.’

He grabs my hand and we’re swept into a small movie theatre. Everything is dark, so I can’t tell if there’s anyone in it—but I have a weird feeling that it’s empty. I walk through the dark and I can see the dusty streams of light coming from the projector in the back of the theatre. I look at the way the lint in the air does a slow dance through the beams. I remember being a kid and looking at the same bits of dust, wondering where they came from and where they were gliding towards.

Pretty soon, I’m wrapped up in him. His arms find the small of my back and we’re pressed up against the back wall. The wall feels like velvet against my t-shirt and it scratches me the wrong way. I move my palms against it to try and coax it to move the right way so it feels smooth again. I remember this feeling, this moment, just like high school, just like things used to be—the way he’s leaning just a little bit against me to let me know what he wants but not so much that I feel trapped there. I could leave—but I don’t. It feels nice to be a tangled mess with him again.

My eyes look to the front of the room to see what’s playing on the screen, but I can’t make anything out. It’s still just the bits of air swimming through space as the projector shows dull fuzz against a white backdrop.

But the light isn’t just projecting blank space. It’s projecting the screen just before the movie starts—when you get settled in your seat and pick up your drink to take a purposeful sip before you get lost in the feature film. The light is setting the stage for the last moment that you are completely aware of yourself, before the production swallows you and you can’t feel the armrests on your elbows anymore. The screen is waiting for something and I am starting to get annoyed.

‘Why are we here?’ I gasp, trying to breathe. He doesn’t respond. He’s busy with other things.

‘Hey.’

‘Mhm…’

‘What are we doing here?’

He takes a quick laugh and turns his head to my face. ‘What do you mean?’

I peel myself away from him and start walking towards the screen.

‘What is it doing?’

He starts to walk a few steps behind me, but I quicken my stride and he stops a few feet from the back wall.

‘I mean,’ my voice raises and I’m suddenly aware that my hair is all over the place, ‘what is supposed to be playing right now?’

I turn back to him quickly and see that he’s buttoning up his shirt with sad hands, his head dropped low. Completely distracted from me. I turn away.

I’m walking towards the screen but it isn’t getting any closer to me. Each step I take it seems like the other wall is taking an equal step in the other directions. It’s a fantastic game of cat-and-mouse and it’s driving me crazy. My heart races up—I don’t want to miss what’s about to come onto the screen and I seem to think that getting closer to it will ensure that I won’t. I’m running now. I’ve forgotten that I’m not wearing shoes and my bra is unlatched, but I don’t care. I pull my bra down and out through my sleeves without missing a step. I pull off my shirt. My pants and underwear slide down effortlessly. I can’t be sure where he is now, but I’m confident he isn’t behind me. I’m alone, naked, running after the screen.

I run so fast that I can’t feel my thighs. I should be sweating but the wind from my stride dries any beads that have accumulated. I lift my arms up and the light envelops me. My feet take one more leap and I am in the air. I am in the screen, I am in the light with the bits of lint swimming around me. I am weightless and I am waiting to see what comes after the moment before the movie starts.