I took myself to the cinema, the ‘Walk-ins,’ Colt calls them, alone. It’s always seemed like a group thing, a date activity. I didn’t visit the snack bar. Sitting in the semi-dark, aisle lights threading bloom up the stairs and the screen yet to silver, I felt less than isolated. Several couples, a few threes, and half a dozen odd numbers were scattered around without sequence. I could hear pre-melted butter congealing in the seats, the crunch of stale fabric under ripe asses, and the calculated murmur of impatient purpose. I don’t remember what I saw.