Free Missing Reels by Farran S Nehme

strolling down the aisle toward the jewelry cases as if no time had elapsed since their last meeting.
    He didn’t pretend to look in the case. He leaned against the far counter, gave a wave and waited. Ceinwen’s sales patter took on desperation. The necklace was twenty dollars, and this woman was carrying a Chanel purse. If she didn’t make up her mind soon, Ceinwen was ready to take down some hats and see if she could keep her occupied that way. She finally decided on the choker, and Ceinwen handed her over to Roxanne.
    Matthew was still leaning. He didn’t look so hot. In Mississippi, if you finally laid eyes on someone who’d disappeared for a couple of weeks, you’d say, “Where the hell you been?” What would you say in England? She walked over and clasped her hands behind her back.
    “To what do I owe the honor?”
    At least he looked startled. “Harry gave me homework.”
    She looked around the counter. “What do you have to buy?”
    “A movie ticket,” he said. “To
The Crowd
.”
    He was going to ask her, she realized with a little flare of happiness. But that didn’t mean it had to come easy. “Great. Let me know how you like it.”
    He put his elbows on the counter, which probably foretold an explanation. “I would have stopped in sooner”—yep—“but we were trying to work out this proof together. And it wasn’t going well, so I was staying late at the office. And yesterday Harry walked in and told me the whole thing was a nonstarter. He’d been giving a talk up at Columbia, and he got on the subway and started thinking about another idea, and he realized our angle couldn’t be done. Four months of work. Poof.”
    She wasn’t sure it worked as an excuse, but she did feel a little sorry for him. “Just sitting on the subway? What was he looking at?”
    “No idea. A derelict, possibly. In any event, that’s that. We have to start over. So today he came in”—Mathew took a folded sheet out of his pocket—“and said this sod—erm, silent movie is playing somewhere called Theatre 80 St. Marks. He said it’s tonight only and ordered me to see it.” He paused for a second or two, then continued when she didn’t speak. “Threw me out of the office. Threats were made against my job.”
    “Aw, Harry wouldn’t do that.”
    “Probably not. But he did bring up the word ‘recommendations’ in an ominous sort of way.” Another pause. “So here I am.”
    “Here you are,” she agreed. He needed to suffer some more.
    “It’s at 9:30.” She waited it out. “Would you like to go?”
    She put her elbows on the counter. “Did Harry order you to take me?”
    “He mentioned it.”
    Harry’s idea. Damn. “He’s probably right. It’s probably a great movie. There’s a whole chapter about it in one of the books he lent me. There’s one shot of hundreds of desks—I saw a still—and Billy Wilder stole it when he made—”
    “Does that mean yes?”
    “—
The Apartment
. I don’t know, I’m tired.”
    “This should buck you up. Almost two hours of poetry. Hard poetry.”
    “That’s harsh poetry.”
    “Right, my mistake. Harsh, dark, truthful poetry. Got that again tonight. I hate to say you owe me, but you do.”
    She decided it was time to straighten necklaces and opened the case. She smoothed out one, she smoothed out another.
    “Of course, if you already have plans …”
    “I get off work at nine,” she said. “I’ll meet you there at a quarter after.”
    It didn’t take fifteen minutes to walk to Theatre 80, so she had some time to kill. She watched Talmadge bring the gates down in front of the store. From his post on the men’s side he’d been checking out the conversation with Matthew, and he had opinions to deliver.
    “You had me thinking he was forty at least. He’s not that old at all. And he’s cute. Sort of.” Talmadge was trying to get the padlock fastened. “For an English guy, he’s incredibly cute.”
    “I didn’t say he was forty, I said