Free Missing Reels by Farran S Nehme Page B

exactly where.”
    “So you say. First time, foreigner, doesn’t watch silent movies, give him the dodgy seat.” They threw their coats over the broken seat and sat back down. Matthew put his elbow on the armrest between them, then put his hand on it. The armrest, too narrow for more than one small arm, wobbled slightly.
    “You gotta comment on everything, don’t you,” she said.
    “As a matter of fact, I was loudly
not
commenting.”
    “No, you’re just doing some kind of experiment.”
    “I’m trying to see if this has two hours left in it. It definitely won’t support two arms.”
    She put the popcorn in her lap and folded her arms close to her body. “It’s all yours.”
    “Generous woman.” He put his elbow on the armrest and slid down until his head hit the top of the seat.
    “Don’t mention it. You did buy the tickets.”
    “True, I did. What do I get for the popcorn?”
    She’d been doing well to this point, but now she was staring into her popcorn bag and thinking Theatre 80 needed to do better with starting on time. “King Vidor?”
    He’d closed his eyes. He did look exhausted. “No, for that I get Harry no longer greeting me with ‘Hey, Michael J. Fox.’”
    Hallelujah, the curtains were parting and she didn’t have to reply. The titles began to roll. Theatre 80 was rear-projection, and the prints fell somewhere between adequate and shredded. The soundtrack, an organ, sounded warped, there was a black line down the left side, and flecks of black floated on the image. A bad splice caused a sudden jump.
    “Fuck me,” groaned Matthew, who had opened his eyes but otherwise hadn’t moved.
    “Shush.” She elbowed him, and the armrest wobbled. “The prints always get better further in.” If he was one of those people who talked during the movie, this was going to be a short evening.
    He wasn’t. After the baby on screen started crying, neither said a word. Ceinwen, who’d been worried about sitting so close to him in the cramped seats, noticed Matthew only when he picked his head up a few minutes in.
    The lights came up, and people began to file out. She turned.
    “If you have one bad word to say about that movie, I’m telling you right now, I don’t want to hear it.”
    “I don’t.” He reached over and picked up her coat.
    “You don’t? Really?” That was a squeal.
    He stood up and held up the coat for her. “No. I don’t.”
    She was still sitting. “You liked it?”
    “Yes. That is what I am saying. I liked it. Happy?”
    “I’m thrilled. And Harry will be so pleased.”
    “No more so than I. My career is safe, until he decides I have to sit through
Napoleon
.” He waggled the coat, and she stood up and put her arms in the sleeves. His hands brushed her shoulders. “Was that popcorn your dinner?”
    “Um …”
    “Right. Know anywhere around here?”
    She needed to do a better job of thinking ahead. She hadn’t once considered what happened after the movie, but then she seldom did. “Kiev? It’s right over on Seventh.”
    “Fine.”
    She fired up a cigarette as soon as they hit the sidewalk and began going through the movie, walking backwards at one point so she could imitate a movement for him, until he grabbed both her arms to keep her from colliding with a passing mohawk-haired kid. The sandwich board. The office building and the desks. Coney Island. The marriage.
    It was a short walk to Kiev, a twenty-four-hour joint famous as a good place to put heavy food in a drunk stomach. They found a table and she was still talking, squinting slightly at the harsh fluorescents after Theatre 80’s blue lights. The little girl. The truck. The river. The little boy. The movie theater. Matthew reached over and tapped the menu. “Do you have something in mind, or shall I order while you parse the movie? Because I warn you, I’ll make you eat your vegetables.”
    “Nobody in their right mind orders vegetables at Kiev. Except potatoes.” She pushed the menu aside