Intro from Rowan
A second date, the kind where nerves blur with hunger, a late showing, a balcony almost empty. The stranger I had only just begun to know let his thigh rest against mine until the air itself was heavy with intent.
Rowan
We had kissed once before, quick and breathless outside a bar, hands fumbling at each other’s shirts before pulling away with the promise of a second meeting. This was it. A cinema, of all places. He told me it was safer, less pressure, a chance to actually sit side by side without rushing. But the smirk on his mouth said otherwise, and I already knew the movie would not be what I remembered.
The foyer was almost deserted, the smell of popcorn sharp and artificial, neon signs buzzing faintly above the ticket counter. He bought for us both without asking what I wanted to see, his confidence easy, disarming. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, grinning as he pressed the stubs into my palm. And he was right.
The balcony was nearly empty, just us and a handful of others far below. The seats were worn, red fabric fraying at the edges, the carved initials of teenagers etched into the armrests. We chose the back row, close to the projector’s hum, close enough to feel hidden in shadow. The lights dimmed. The film began, forgettable dialogue filling the dark.
For a while, we pretended. We watched the screen, or pretended to, our shoulders brushing, our arms just close enough to feel the warmth radiating. The first time my thigh touched his, I pulled away. The second time, I left it. The third time, he pressed back, and I knew we were no longer watching anything at all.
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