Secret Agent Lover Man

Title: Secret Agent

Lover Man

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my sweet little ass. And a '91 Nissan with no air conditioner.

Notes: Feels good to be writing again. More to come later.

#%#

The thing about a really good funk is that in order to truly wallow in self pity you have to alone. Unobserved. If someone's watching you, then you're aware that you're in a funk, and then by definition you're being self absorbed. And that's wrong.

It's why I like The Diamond. This great old theater that shows nothing but movies made before 1965. The absolute best is when they play the silent films. First of all, the action is way faster, Second they're much more melodramatic than anything else, and third-- absolutely nobody ever showed up for them.

They were great for when I really wanted to mull over how I was going to die alone.

So imagine my surprise when I turned around right between the first and second showing of Virtuous Sinners I realized there was a man watching me. After I got over the initial freak out, I went straight into 'you've invaded my space' mode. And then it was 'you bastard, what are you doing watching me, you're a perv, aren't you?'

Not that I talked to him. I got up and left. That night.

And the night after that.

And the Saturday matinée after that.

On Sunday I went in ready to march right up to him and tell him that I didn't care that he was going to be there. I could brood with an audience. Only he wasn't there. I spent the entire running time of Showboat-- the black and white Agnes Morehead version, thank you-- wondering where he was and if he was coming back. I missed his pervy, emo kid/man, elf like face with his intense eyes looking at me like he was getting more out of me than the movie. Don't think I didn't feel his eyes when he watched.

Only now he was gone. We'd never said a word to each other. I'd never gotten a chance to tell him to fuck off. He'd never gotten a chance to tell me he thought I was interesting. He was just... gone.

About halfway through the reprise to Only Make Believe I realized that maybe my best friend was right and I should consider anti-anxiety meds. By the time the credits were rolling and I was getting up to leave the disappointment had receded to a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. Like indigestion.

I left the theater, turning toward home and thinking I'd have a new story to tell my therapist, assuming I had one, when I saw a familiar figure leaning against one of the old fashioned lamp posts. I did a double take. He grinned. I noticed he had a crooked tooth in front. It was cute.

“You missed the movie,” I sounded so stupid!

His eyes were dancing. “Did you miss me?”

Oh. My. Lord.