Popcorn

He wasn't there when the film began, so he must have arrived sometime afterwards. He sat in the aisle seat, a few seats down from us, and he had a large sports bag on his lap.

It was the bag I noticed, the way he was holding it. I had put my bags on the floor, like everyone else. But he held his to him. Right against his chest, his arms encircling it fully.

As though it were a child. As though it were something too valuable to let go.

Or as though it were all you owned in the world.

Confessions: my thoughts:
What if?
Smells, don't breathe, stop. Not too obvious.
Just - there, out of the corner - see. Beard. Not cut.
How did he get in?
Did he-
Maybe hides in the cinema, from film to film. Staff know, don't see anymore-
Kerbsides, plastic bags. Huddled blankets. Hand, cup, no faces.
Woman with her shopping trolley, everything in there. Talks to herself- Him too?

These thoughts are not fair, but I had them.

Halfway through the film, I needed to go to the bathroom. I didn't want to have to squeeze past him. I was afraid of having to touch him.

When I do get up and begin to shimmy across the seats, he stands up too. Sorry, he says, and he stands out in the aisle for me to pass. And he gives me a lovely, shy smile, then bows his head again.

Then he gathers up his bag again and seats himself carefully. I can see his eyes shining in the dark as he watches the film, the bag hugged to him.

I feel immediately ashamed.

Is it fear? Is that where those thoughts came from?

What am I afraid of?

I was reading someone recently, who wrote about the looks people gave her. How she could feel their disgust. How it made her feel.

I thought, after reading it, that I would never be one of those people again.

I am one of those people.

So I felt shame. But I also felt something opposite. How small is that series of actions, the getting up and moving aside. And how many times a day do we do something similar? Move around someone in the street, open a door, shift position to allow someone sit in the next seat. Little things with no significance.

But this man did that small thing with such largeness. In such a way that I forgot to be ashamed, and liked him instantly instead.

This is how those things could be done, the tiniest of alterations that make them gifts to one another.

That's how I felt, standing in the dark.

Like I had been handed a gift.

That was six weeks ago. And I am still thinking about him.

I catch myself wondering, if I went back, would he be there, in the same seat?

I'd like him to be. I'd like to offer him some of my popcorn, and we could sit there, munching, in the flickering dark. With our eyes shining.