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.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.