in the movie theater


Inside the theater, I remembered two things specifically.
One, it was Nirvana’s “Heart Shaped Box” that was on the radio of her parents car the first night we drove alone together, the first night we parked behind Oakridge Mall, the night she reached over and got to second base with me trembling in the passenger seat, my hand numb, dumbly hanging motionless in front of her, mid air, confused of whether to go for breast or not.
Two, seeing her inside the theater for the first time, the way she smiled at me with lips that pulsated with glitter lipstick that radiated outwards like runway lights, a sexual beacon, and the shine of her eyes as I looked at her, she at me. It made me nauseous with a feeling I’d never known. It was almost fluey, an overwhelming mix of desire and timidity that made my skin flush and the bile in my tumultuous stomach push through my throat and into the back of my mouth.

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