It's midnight, and I'm in a movie theatre that should have closed two hours ago.
But it didn't.
The scrapings of what's left of my alertness say that I could sit in front of Paul Vecchiali's film 'Once More' for a millennial. The possibility it may just be because I'm unmotivated is likely, but it could also be my longing to hold onto the story. A man falling in love just sounds redundant and idiotic in a playful tone, but it's much more ridiculous to know I'm sitting here drunk, 7 years later, still unable to let his touch get away from me. Ridiculous and stupid. Get a grip. Ruminating and brooding never got you anywhere.
Stirring from motivation, is it seditious to say that I'm far too tired to leave this theatre after the film is over? I could sit here forever, but how many passersby would notice? 2? 3? 6? I've learned to not care anymore. The soft, blue cotton fibers clenched in my fingers is a much softer burn than the story line of a french film taunting my past like a never ending musical. Sighing over and over has become second nature, just like watching Louis leave his wife. I must have seen the film 7 times, or maybe 13, and in doing so I've become more fluent in that exasperation than I have in French. Believe me when I say a musical made for entertainment becomes boring and dreary after the 7th or 13th time. So, I suppose the only question that's left floating in my mind is, "Elio, if a film has made you worn down and consumed, why is it you come back?" The only answer that could fit would simply fit because it has to, "I don't know." Perhaps I would like to know the face of who stands behind my thoughts and spreads these questions over me like fire. Perhaps I'm afraid I might recognize that face.
"Elio?" A familiar voice beckons me out of the sea of thought I already allowed myself to drown in. In front of the screen is a shadow of a woman's body that reminds me of a simpler time.
"Marzia? Désolé, I didn't mean to give the impression that I was ignoring you," Apparently the movie ended. I don't remember the last scene playing.
"Do you want to go out tomorrow night? We're having an end summer party à la lac." The wrinkles in her face when she squints are the only reason I ever found her more attractive than the other girls. They're raw.
"Oui, c'est bon," I nod. Tomorrow is the last day of summer. One more day, and I finally get to see the rest of the world, somewhere other than Italy. "You're lucky you caught me. I might have started living from this seat without a voice of reason."A slight giggle escapes her, and the flute in a whimsical Georges Barrère piece I played once chimes in my head. Piano accompaniment, of course. What was the title? "Musette."
"Musette?" She narrows her eyes to my changed smirk and shaking head. As my curls sway into my line of sight I realize it's been months since I cut my hair. It could stay this way.
"Musette, a flute piece by Georges Barrère," I try to word this carefully as not to sound condescending. "You reminded me of the way that song is played, but," I stop as soon as I recognize her confusion. "Don't mind me. I'm just a musician that speaks from his head when called for his heart and speaks from his heart when called for his head."
"You always say something to put yourself down." She smiles at me for a moment, "Can I say something a bit intruding?"
I then feel the darkness of the theatre surround me. Fuck. "Hm?"
"I know it was such a long time ago, mais étiez-vous amoureux d'Oliver?" her watered eyes and soft voice wouldn't have broken me if it weren't for the faded lights in the theatre. Something about this ambience kills me slowly, faster than the average day. It was Oliver and I's. The whole world was. I turn and begin to leave the building. It's my only solution to not making myself look like a fool.
