The production studio’s logo appears. The remaining lights come on. The tunnel of light-dust from the projector to the screen fades out. More cleaning staff emerge from the Exit doors, and wait.
I get up, dust the remaining crumbs from my t-shirt and jeans, quickly look around to ensure I haven’t dropped anything, and begin walking to the front of the row.
What do I see? A girl in a deep pink printed tee, faded jeans, silver tote, wavy hair falling gently on her shoulders, too walking to the front of her row, three rows ahead.
Is this possible? Another soaked-to-the-bone movie-lover?
I tentatively look at her, she returns the look, and smiles back pleasantly. I return a wider smile.
If we had been at the same level of rows, we could have for now at least walked down this aisle together.