2/20

I’m to see a movie after work with a friend.  A movie about religion and possession and witches.  

When work ends I stride out to my car, and I recall the dugout I placed in the driver’s side door a few days ago.  As I start the engine I reach down for it, whispering wishes that there is still some weed in the apparatus.  That there is still something in there to make me feel different.  To make consciousness pop.

And there is.  And I rejoice.  Exclaim with relief.  I no longer have to wade through this evening sober.  Hooray.

As I navigate my way to the theater, I casually take hits from the cylindrical pipe, designed to look like a cigarette.  It makes parking slightly more difficult, as I’ve become less concerned with how quickly I turn the wheel or how efficiently I maneuver my car into a space for traffic to continue.  These things are less pressing.

But I still manage to walk in a straight line and enter the lobby in a timely manner.  Even if my thoughts are turning into warm honey.  Even if I’m beginning to fold inward upon myself as I contemplate the finer notions of being a good human.  Of determining right and wrong where there are no structures.  Of feeling some sense of security in my daily life.

My friend rises from the sofa he’s settled on and walks toward me.  We greet each other and I only hold eye contact for a brief moment before looking back to the posters on the wall or the checkered tiling on the floor because I fear that a prolonged stare into another human right now may derail me from any semblance of the stability I’m feigning.

Then I see the girl in glasses with dark hair curling down to her shoulders seated before the dimly lit hallway of double doors.  A silver stud sticks out from her nose, and as I hand my ticket over to her, as our fingers gently graze, our eyes meet.  And I fall in.  I plummet down a well of surging visions and flourishing fantasies.  I see a life.  A whirlwind of events making up a young woman in Baltimore.  The night several years ago on her late uncle’s farm when she decided she wanted to be a city girl.  The tattoos she got when she first arrived and the bike she now rides everywhere.  Then, a sprawling manifestation of a life from here forward.  Together.  With this girl.  Joining hands.  Heading back out of the city.  Opening a bed and breakfast in the country somewhere.  Getting a dog.  Having a kid.  Raising a family.

Then she’s pointing to the door with Theater 1 printed on it.  And my friend is nudging me to move.  

And I do.