We're sitting in a movie theater,
her silhouette barely defined in the dark,
the pungent smell of cigarettes
masking her breath.
It's playing the previews,
The coming soon's flashing on the screen,
followed by snippets of what
done-to-death storylines Hollywood
is going to tell next,
and my arm brushes against hers
on the armrest that she and I share.
I don't even remember the title
of the movie. Some horror flick, I think.
She picked it. Said one of the actors was hot.
$12.50 to stare at rock abs—
her idea of money well-spent.
Our feature presentation starts.
She dips her fingers into our shared
bag of popcorn as her hot commodity
drives down a dirt road
with his onscreen girlfriend and two friends
in the back. She watches and chews as
they innocently tour the South
until they blow a tire and break
Horror Movie Survival Rule #1:
Don't accept help from eccentric strangers,
Shit hits the fan, just like that.
No room for character development—
not in horror films with hot actors.
It detracts from the running and screaming,
from the bouncing breasts
and torn jeans exposing bare leg.
The hot commodity worth $12.50
is the first to go, sliced across the throat,
blood pouring down his chest—
a gory fountain.
She curses, pissed, and hands me
the popcorn before resting her head
against my shoulder, now bored.
I smile as the movie plays on,
one unrealistically gruesome scene
after another, uneducated
Southern drawls followed by shrieks
and laughable pleas.
The girlfriend survives, limping
down a vacant street, arms crossed,
doused in blood, and then the screen blackens.
It's the end.
Everyone gets up and shuffles
toward the exits, ready to leave.
I start to move but she gives a slight moan
in her sleep and nestles into my neck.
I think I'll stay here awhile.
There might be something after the credits.