Tuesday is date night. With myself. That's right, I take myself out. To the movies. And this Tuesday I did it with a Fading Gigolo. Definitely my style.
That's how I do things.
John Turturro. Woody Allen. And me. It sounded like the best sort of trio. Intimate, even, as I was the only one in the theater. And then as a plethora of movie trailers played only for me, beautiful indy films I will eventually see, two couples walked into my intimate setting. They sat separately. So...it wasn't just John Turturro, Woody Allen, and me. But alas, that's okay. I'm glad there are other fans in this world.
Or not.
During the movie, things started happening. Now I'm fairly entranced by the screen, but since I usually sit in the very back middle of the theater, everyone else is before me, as though I'm on a throne of sorts. I'm not going to go into details, but let's just say some heavy fondling was most likely going on. And zippers. Both couples. Still separately. But obviously equally obnoxious.
These four people didn't buy tickets for an indy flick. No, they came to my movie, my intimate setting...to get well, intimate. A level of intimacy I don't want to witness.
It reminded me of this time when I was eighteen and this guy I knew was complaining about his horrible experience in the theater and how these people right by him were disturbing him as they were misbehaving in that sort of way, and he had to get a manager. He ended up scoring free movie tickets out of the ordeal, but he wasn't thrilled about it at all. Honestly, I was more intrigued by the fact he too went to movies by himself. It shouldn't surprise me though. We were born on the exact same day, in the same exact year, at the same hospital. We both liked cats, Frank Sinatra (his cat was named Sinatra), we loved the same music, the same favorite books, had the same theological questions, and that's just the short list of similarities. And no, we did not date, as dating yourself is rarely a good idea.
Unless it's your actual self. And you're taking yourself to a movie. See what I did right there? Full circle.
And there I was, on a date with myself. And John Turturro. And Woody Allen. We were not misbehaving in that sort of exhibitionist way, as well, that'd be just a wee bit odd for me and a behavior saved for has-been celebrities. And since I'm not a voyeur, it was a bit uncomfortable. Luckily, the movie was absolutely fantastic. It was so marvelous, I was able to mostly forget anything was going on before me.
And then the credits rolled. The lights came back on early. And one of the couples stood up, she arranged her skirt, turning it around, and he finished pulling up his jeans and zipped his zipper. And then any chance of me forgetting what was going on had vanished. And there I was, in the back of the theater. Alone. Woody was gone. So was John. Just me. And my blushing cheeks. My unfading reddened cheeks.
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