The cinema is packed for the midnight screening. The line for tickets, with the unfortunate souls who didn't think ahead and preorder, goes out the door and onto the sidewalk.
A girl and boy stand in line at the concession stand talking with the easy grace of best friends. The boy has the shine in his eyes of more than friends.
His sweatshirt is red and soft-looking and matches his Blue Jays cap. He stands a foot taller than the girl, who crosses her legs in skinny jeans and grins up at him as she talks about something that makes his nose wrinkle.
The way he gazes at her is an awful kind of affection in the original sense of the word. It breathtaking as well as heartbreaking, especially as she seems to have no idea.
She keeps taking a phone from her back pocket and tapping the keyboard. He stretches to see the screen, but she tips it toward her chest.
Why? He whines, pouting as he simultaneously steps forward with the ravenous line.
It's no one. She rolls her eyes, sticking it back in her jeans.
Yeah, no one who's been sexting you all week? He replies, wryly, adjusting his hat over luscious brown hair.
Don't worry about it. She shakes her head at him. And we weren't sexting, jeez, Luke.
They come to an impasse before they order, and soon have their pockets full of candy. When they join the crowds milling towards the entrance to the theatres, he reaches back and takes her hand in his like its a second nature.
She grasps it gratefully and lets him part the seas of people with polite shoves and excuse me ma'ams.
In their seats, he catches a glimpse of her screen, the name on it, and bites his lip.
She doesn't notice, and opens the package of Sour Pack Kids in her lap. He turns away and stares at the screen with a hopeless sort of expression.
Because it doesn't even matter. It doesn't matter whether a cuter/smarter/richer/taller guy is texting her. It doesn't matter if she doesn't like her best friend back. He's hopelessly in love with her anyway, and there's nothing he can do about it.
