Sitting in an air-conditioned movie theater on a hot day, dark
before the film starts
silent, stifled whispers
like a church
watching prepopulated images
a series of visuals
providing a faux-real imaginative experience
then we depart
back into the sweltering above-ground abyss.
In the bathroom at the last movie theater I went to there was a vending machine. In addition to breath mints and Ibuprofen, the machine had table top footballs for sale; those pointy triangle things that you made yourself and played with back when you were in middle school.
You could buy one. In a movie theater bathroom. On your way to or from a movie.
I would’ve figured condoms.