When I looked at this hands, this morning in the kitchen table, holding the cup of coffee, placing it near his lips with fear, burning his mouth a little, two lumps of sugar, so dexterous with the butter. I thought: those hands. Those fingers have been inside me. They have been covered in his saliva, my fluids. He had hurt me with them. He had indulged me with them. With his hands he had claimed my body, pressing my nipples, slapping my legs. Spitting in my mouth only to later touch my lips with the same fingers he was then using for peeling a banana, so gently, he sliced it and put it inside of his warm almond milk bowl. Without even thinking.
A young man enters alone. He sits in front of me – in the very front down by the screen in the area where nobody sits unless it is opening night of a blockbuster summer extravaganza.He is alone, and noticeably so. His hair has waves in it and he is thin. What is his story?I think he is a covert operative. Why would this boy come to see A Streetcar Named Desire all alone and sit in the front row? He had a small bag of popcorn with him. Perhaps he was there to tape a brief encoded message to the bottom of his seat for another agent to find. Or perhaps he is secretly in love with the young Marlon Brando and his friends must never know. What a tragedy it must be for him, so entranced by a man who was his age in 1951. He stares up at the silvered image that towers two metres in front of him and shoots for the sky.
I was alone too. But my bag of popcorn was huge. It filled my emptiness.