I needed to get the hell out of the house. I walked to Union Square, swiped my card, smuggled my steaming Chai tea into my handbag, and then I sat–no, I reclined in the plush stadium seating where all the armrests were up, leaving me with a row of sofa–the only person in the theatre, at the ready for Nanny McPhee. She was there to teach the unruly children five lessons. I was an English major, and I still count on my fingers, so I don’t boast on about my math prowess, but surely I can count to five. Yet, I somehow missed the five lessons.
1.Say please and thank you.
2.Go to sleep when told.
3.Wake when told.
4. Something else, but I forget
Maybe I didn’t listen. Maybe the please and thank you bits were separate lessons. I’m sorry; I got distracted. See, just as the movie began, a couple entered the theatre, seated two rows in front of me (in an empty theatre), but they were over to my left. Then a few more stragglers made it in. A crying baby, some kids fighting over nacho cheese or a shoelace, something to do with "that’s my moo moo hat." It was fine; it was 4:30pm, a luxurious hour for a movie on a Thursday afternoon.
Part-way through the movie, out of the corner of my eye, just as the screen lit up when Nanny McPhee’s first wart disappeared, I saw a quick steady movement. I’d seen something like this frantic action before. This time though, it was not a hand. The she of the couple seems to be bobbing for apples on the lap of the he of the couple. Holy shit. She’s going down on him at a kid’s movie. I don’t know what my obsession is with my camera, but immediately, all I thought–okay, not all–was, I have to take a picture of this so someone believes this. I couldn’t do it. Instead I texted The Suitor, "I am at movies and there is a couple near me lying down. She’s going down on him." To which he responded, "I’m jealous."
Then I got to thinking. Nanny McPhee’s second wart disappeared as the children learned another lesson. Public sex. It sounds exciting to me, it really does, and I was turned on knowing this couple was beside me getting off, or at least one of them was. But as my luck would have it, it wouldn’t just be the thrill of "what if we’re caught," with my luck, it would be, "oh, hi officer." I know there are books suggestion public sex. Could I hold one up in my defense, pleading that I was just trying to keep things fresh? What if I said please and thank you and could sleep and wake on demand? Would it make the charges disappear?
"Come on, let’s go see a movie tonight," I urged once Nanny McPhee ended.
"But you just saw one."
With The Suitor sitting to my left, we saw the mistake of all movies, Firewall. It was my suggestion, without reading any reviews. I thought it would be a welcomed recommendation as it was a departure from my usual chick flick demands. It was the first action film I’ve ever seen where I actually turned to The Suitor and said, "is it just me or is this movie dull?" Then it stopped being boring and became beyond stupid. So we wouldn’t be missing out on a good movie if I, say, I don’t know, began to push my hand between his thighs. I decided to slip my engagement ring onto my right hand. Then, with my left hand, I reached toward his groin area. I felt something hard. It was his wallet. Shit. I could also sense he wanted no part of my public play; he preferred, I assumed, to mock the mockery of an action film. I was firewalled.