The popcorn froze on her tongue. She gulped it down past the lump in her throat to the pit in her stomach. She set the tub down. Carefully.
His face animated by the screen’s glow, she saw him in a new light, his depths as shallows, his seriousness as absence of joy, his interest in her as centred on himself, his desire to take her to a film as his wish to see the film.
“Just going to the toilet,” she whispered. He didn’t look as she stood and walked up the aisle, didn’t notice she’d taken her coat.
Kevlin Henney lives in Bristol and online and in the spaces in between. His shorts and flashes and drabbles of fiction have been published here and there, online and on tree.