heart, pirated

Even in the cool dark of the theatre, in the middle of a film I have looked forward to for months, I am restless. I have bought popcorn because I thought I would need a distraction from feelings too intense, possibly too familiar; instead, I am snacking because I am — I really hate to admit this — bored.

There are 13 people in this theatre. I know because I checked the seats before going in, and again when I find myself losing focus during the film. I count them off in my head. 13 people here, 7 of us who have come alone. This is not a film you want to watch with someone else. It will bring up too many questions, and some things are better left unsaid.

There is one girl who comes ready to cry. I know this from her attire: she is dressed in all black, with a cap pulled down impossibly low. She slinks in early, jaw set, shoulders squared. She looks straight ahead the whole time, even before the lights dim. I imagine she is preparing emotionally for what is to come.

Except — I cannot tell if she does end up crying, because even though I am antsy, distracted, impatient, bored, I am the one who ends up in tears. I cry so hard in those final moments that the man one seat away asks me if I’m ok before he leaves with his wife. I continue to cry as the credits roll, as the lights come on, as the other 12 people leave and the janitorial staff comes in with a flashlight to check for popcorn on the floor. 

I know I need to leave this theatre, so I walk down the hallway, still crying, into the bathroom. I lock myself in a cubicle and think, god, this must be a new low. 35 and crying in a public bathroom. So I get it together. The tears peter out. I regain control. I clean my face, re-tie my hair, stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and say, “Ok. You can do this.” I have said this out loud without meaning to, and now the lady washing her hands two taps away looks up at me. My reflection smiles at her.

Then I decide to get sushi for lunch.

*

I end up writing at Genki Sushi. I overstay my welcome — at the 2-hour mark, I am unceremoniously asked if I have any last orders. Diners are still coming in. There are tables aplenty. And don’t they use a QR code to track orders? Puzzled, I reply, “Are you closing?”

“No. But our dining limit is one hour and you have stayed for two.”

So I pack up and leave, because they have given me the guise of a dignified exit. The expectation is to take it, even if you don’t want to.

*

Here’s the thing I learned from Past Lives. We have this one life. We could have been someone else, but could-have does not matter in the face of what-has-been-done. The dwelling, the hoping, the pining — it’s all impossibly futile resistance when we have to live in present tense with present-day consequences. So here we are: hearts on sleeves. Here we are: a life familiar. Here we are: apart, together, in the dark, making it to the light of day. 

We have one life. We spend so much of it running so we can hope to know when to stay.