On Love and Movies

I pulled my sweatshirt over my arms and leaned back in his uncomfortable desk chair. It was dorm issued and scratchy and was stained with something yellow. He was lounging on his XL twin staring at the ceiling and humming to Slipknot. I guess that’s what we did when we didn’t have smartphones.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

He hopped off the raised mattress, its plastic coating crinkling as he moved, and started ticking off choices. “Trainspotting? Brave Heart? Oh my God! Have you ever see Momento?” He looked up at me, certain he was the first person in the world to have ever seen Momento. I knew he felt masculine with a hint of Indie. I knew he was dying for me to say that I had never heard of it, let alone seen it, so that I could curl up next to him while he man-splained how the movie was in reverse chronological order.

I blinked at him, considering his face.  “Yea. I’ve seen that one.”

He frowned and then started rifling through his DVD’s again.  I sighed and looked out the window.  The sun was just beginning to set and the sky was the perfect shade of Hooter’s orange.

Why was this the script? When did drive-ins and soda shops go out, and get replaced with a bag of Doritos and a rotation of the same 15 “amazing” movies. Each set the exact same, regardless of the cut of the man. Seriously, Gaston had better game and he was specifically proud of expectorating.

Step 1: Do you want to hang out?
Step 2: Let me offer you a seat on my questionable furniture. Don’t mind the empty cup of Ramen Noodles.
Step 3: Both stare at my poster of Scarface (that weirdly I don’t own a copy of)
Step 4: Suggest we listen to music so I can impress you with what I think is a romantic song but is actually about a school shooting
Step 4.5: Want to listen to me play guitar? (This automatically eliminates step 5)
Step 5: Suggest (with the enthusiasm of a QVC host) one of 15 movies that every guy from now until the end of time is required to own

He popped back up from his bin of DVD’s, certainty on his face. A face that looked far too old for a college student, and far too young for someone that is supposed to pay taxes. “How about Donnie Darko? That one’s fucked up. If we had more time I’d suggest The Godfather…” His verbal ellipses was an offer for me to stay the night. I’d been offered The Godfather package before, but I was a lady.

I smiled. “Sure. Donnie Darko is fine.”

He shook his head.  “I’ve got it.  How about The Last of the Mohicans!” He seemed determined to impress. I wish we had gone bowling instead, or to the dentist for a root canal.

____
“Have you seen The Last of the Mohicans?” he asked me. He was tall with messy hair and a tshirt that had been stretched from too much wear. He was half searching for his drum sticks, half looking for a movie for us to watch. Of course he was in a band. They were all in a band, or trying to be in a band, or talking about being in a band. Don’t they know about Spotify?

“Yea in college, but it’s been 10 years.” What was it about colonialism and genocide that said “date night” to these men? I pulled my sweatshirt off and tried not to look bored as I played with the paper on my beer.

“That’s a great one.  One of my favorites.” He had disappeared back into the hall closet, looking for another movie.

I knew what was next. It would be Fight Club. Snatch. Boondock Saints or Reservoir Dogs. Really anything with Colin Ferrell doing drugs and shooting at shit. Although, it was Christmas time.  I suppose I could just suggest Die Hard and close the curtain on this whole song and dance. How did I get here? It was predictable. It was maddening. It was like Groundhog’s Day which inevitably he was going to suggest in 3…2…

“How about The Big Lebowski? That movie is fucking hilarious. Or Ground Hogs Day?”

 

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