I wanted to know two things: how the glass behind her had shattered and what they’d done with the old carpet.
So I raised my hand, twice.
They weren’t sure how the glass behind the sculpture had become broken, but they did know about the carpet. “It’s being preserved,” they assured me and the rest of the group. The new carpet (patterned in pink, red, and blue; it supposedly looked exactly the same as the old stuff) had just been installed two months before our visit — before that, the old carpet had stretched all the way back to the 1920s.
My creative writing class continued touring Alabama Theatre, settling finally into the exhibition area. I’d never been. I don’t watch movies often, and when I do, I don’t “go see them.”
Our professor thanked the tour guides for showing us the place, taking us up on stage, and letting us peek in at the pipe chambers, and then he asked us to read our journal entries (from the week before) aloud.
When my turn came, I swallowed.
“I mostly read, so I just imagined being at a theatre,” I explained, pulling on the edges of a crumpled sheet of paper.
A small piece of popcorn.
It really wasn’t worth moving to readjust, because I might lose his arm — the light grip on my shoulder. I needed the warmth more than I needed to be comfortable.
I followed the movie sometimes, with my eyes… catching characters in different states and gauging situations by sounds from an attentive audience.
But mostly, my eyes were off while open. I was trying to understand him, and his arm; wondering if he’d really rather be talking with me than facing a screen right now.
My friend Jackie squealed beside me. She likes when I write about boys. And I always do.
Our professor then asked us to write another journal entry based on our time at Alabama Theatre. I didn’t share this one.
Red curtains, red floors, red lights point toward the stage.
We sit on red seats, the velvet kind that fold down and out, and then watch as the red organ rises out of the floor. When the music comes at me, it’s in lines – diagonal, straight, curvy; purple, crimson, indigo. I cup my tea with my hands and feel that it’s grown cold.
I wonder about the stage… about the pairs of feet that’ve scratched and tapped at it; danced until they’ve bled on it. How many broken legs? Who were the broken hearts? How often is it cleaned?
And wouldn’t it be nice to jump up there and pretend tonight, get lost in the red?
Non-boyfriend (he’s sort of like a boyfriend; we’re dating exclusively but without titles) is out of town this weekend. He left on Wednesday.
I miss him, but I’m also tired and busy. I met up with a new friend last night; we sat outside in a misty rain, eating Indian food and talking finance. He’s got a really good heart, and we’re looking forward to hiking and playing music together. I’m grabbing drinks with a few girlfriends tonight, hiking with another girlfriend tomorrow, and then having dinner with one of my favoritest couples on Sunday. I’m reserving Monday for some kind of solo adventure.
And then he’s back in town on Tuesday. It’s really just a matter of waiting around until Tuesday, isn’t it? Damn. I wonder if he’ll still like me?