Dear Girlie in the back row,
I want to come sit by you and share my popcorn, because your hair is all kinds of cute, dyed black like I'm going to do in a few months, like the girl in the movie that we're both watching, whose name is mine in french and whose apartment and language and photo-booth boyfriend and job and warm warm smile I want for mine own. You are wearing shoes with velcro fastenings, black mary jane sneakers with pink stripes and I usually abhor pink with the fire of a thousand suns, but it suits you. I saw your sweater and your skirt that you can actually move in when you were ahead of me in the box office, buying a ticket for one, alone like me. And I came into the theatre and you were already in the row that I wanted to sit in, and I passed you in the bathroom, too and you had that same bathroom scowl I wear. And you're sort of plump, same as me, but you wear it with pride, and that's me too, only I hope I look as good as you doing it. You laugh at the same grotesque bits of the movie that I do, even when no one else in the theatre thinks they're funny-they're here for the sugary sweetness, and though I enjoy those and will walk out of the cineplex with a smile and a gooey sort of soft feeling that will remain until the world puts the cynicism back into me, I remember why I like the french, where orgasms and sperm and sex shops come along with the renoir reproductions and the montmartre, and you think those parts are pretty damn funny too, and you have a pretty laugh. And I really have too much popcorn here, there's no way I can eat it all by myself, so, would you like some?