The first piece of popcorn landed on my shoulder.

The second disappeared into my curls.

By the time another handful came sailing over the back of my seat, I knew I would be finding buttery kernels in my hair for the rest of the night.

I have thick, curly hair.

Popcorn doesn’t simply fall out of hair like mine.

It moves in permanently.

On the giant screen, Spider-Man was swinging between buildings while hundreds of people cheered.

Behind me, a nine-year-old boy was laughing at the top of his lungs.

Beside me, my husband Owen stared at the side of my head.

He reached over and carefully pulled a piece of popcorn from my curls.

He held it between two fingers.

Then he looked at me.

Something changed in his face.

I had never seen that expression before.

He placed the popcorn on the armrest as carefully as though it were evidence.

“Stay here,” he said.

Then he stood and walked out of the theater.

I stared after him.

Owen did not confront people.

Owen did not complain.

Owen would rather endure almost anything than risk making another person uncomfortable.

Four minutes later, he returned.

And he wasn’t alone.

But to understand why those four minutes mattered so much, you have to understand my husband.

And what it had taken for us to get inside that theater at all.

Owen is thirty-eight years old and one of the gentlest people I have ever known.

I don’t mean weak.

He’s six-foot-two, works construction, and can carry a sheet of drywall up a staircase by himself.

But he avoids confrontation almost instinctively.

On our third date, he ordered a medium-rare steak.

It arrived completely overcooked.

He looked disappointed for half a second.