Curtain falling

LISA B. ADAMS

They were already seated when we arrived, a sea of white sitting cramped.

Mostly couples, though some were in girl groups.

They didn’t rise when we needed to pass by.

Clearly that effort would be too much.

I know how that feels.

Almost all wore glasses, most eventually pulled out bags of snacks or sucking candies.

No one texted or emailed or checked the time on a phone.

They all had small watches on their wrists for that.

In front of me a man had a bandage on the top of his head, white gauze perched amidst his silver hair, a good head of it.

I decided a funny looking mole, irregular in shape, had lain there recently; his wife pressed him to go see the dermatologist to have it checked.

The two looked out for each other, you see, having been together so long.

The air was still and thick and choked me as the minutes wore on.

I could see the veins protruding on the back of their hands, the wrinkles, the hunched shoulders.

We were the youngest there.

And while I felt more like them in many ways, closer to the end than to the beginning, I realize I am an outsider in every group.

There are few like me.

My hair won’t get that white, you see,

My hands won’t be rewarded with that saggy skin.

I won’t be privileged enough to see him go bald.

It will always be “in sickness” now.

The lights finally went down and I tried to forget.

But my body and mind do not ever let me.

How jealous I was of those elderly people crowded into a movie theater on an August Sunday afternoon.