Owen breathed deeply.
“I missed this smell.”
“It smells terrible.”
“It smells like freedom.”
We bought popcorn and sodas.
Owen carried the bucket like a trophy.
When we reached our seats, he leaned back in the recliner and sighed.
“This is perfect.”
I rested my head against his shoulder.
He wrapped an arm around me.
Then he whispered,
“Thank you.”
“You can thank me after the movie.”
“No. Thank you for getting us here.”
The lights dimmed.
Then a family sat directly behind us.
A father.
A mother.
And their son, Ethan, who looked about nine.
The father was talking loudly on his phone.
The mother was texting.
Ethan wore a Spider-Man shirt almost identical to Owen’s and carried an enormous bucket of popcorn.
He sat directly behind me.
Before the previews ended, something pushed against the back of my seat.
Then again.
And again.
I turned around.
Ethan’s light-up sneakers were pressed against my chair.
His parents were both staring at their phones.
“Excuse me,” I said politely. “Could you ask him to keep his feet off my seat?”
His mother rolled her eyes.
His father sighed.
“Ethan. Feet down.”
The boy lowered his shoes.
For approximately three minutes.
Then the movie began.
So did the popcorn.
Every time Ethan laughed, he threw a handful toward his mouth.
A surprising amount missed.
Some landed on the floor.
Some landed on me.
The first few pieces hit my shoulder.
Then one became tangled in my hair.
Owen reached over and removed it.
“You have popcorn in your curls.”
“I noticed.”
He removed another.
Then another.
A minute later, a larger handful came flying forward.
Popcorn bounced off my head and shoulders.
One piece disappeared down the back of my shirt.
I turned around.
“Please stop throwing popcorn. It keeps landing on me.”
“He’s not throwing anything,” the father said without looking away from his phone. “He’s eating.”
“He’s missing by several feet.”
The mother finally looked up.
“He’s a child.”
I turned around again.
This was our first night out in seven months.
I wasn’t going to spend it arguing with strangers.
