she used to make films


It’s very sunny and we’re sitting outside on the cinema’s terrace. Two people, who can’t be older than twenty-one apiece, hover by the entrance. She’s so glamorous. Well-turned out. He’s scruffier but holding himself with determination.

“Settle a question for me,” says my husband, reading from his phone. “Showering with the dog, yes or no.”

At this point, the pair walk over.

“Excuse me, guys,” she says, standing with a little stoop, palms facing us, “do you mind if we talk to you for a second?”

We don’t, so she does. Making a short film. Of course she’s the producer. Classism, sexism. No mention of characters. Would we scan the QR code and have a look at their crowdfunded? We would, so we do.

“She used to make films,” says my husband, as I wait for my phone to do its thing.

“Wow!” They both say.

“Anything we’d have seen?” she says.

My husband lists the key points. They nod politely. I ask them if they’re having fun.

“We’ve got marketing to do today!” she says, with a different tone, now she knows I’m in on it.

“Ah,” I say. We all share a little laugh. I see the reflection of myself in her sunglasses, so she must be able to see herself in mine. They thank us for our time and wish us a lovely day.

My husband looks back to his phone.

“Showering with the dog, yes or no?” He starts laughing, he can’t contain himself and I love him for it. “I think you’re a pervert.”

After the question hasn’t been settled but thoroughly responded to, there’s a pause.

“You don’t mind me speaking about your past life, do you?” he says, with a weight that he knows the answer but wants to make sure anyway, another thing I love him for, this mix of understanding and humility we have woven between us.

“Oh, no,” I say. Two young people, one in a school uniform and wearing a papier-mâché tiger mask, run through the street beside us, locking arms, giggling at their speed. “I just don’t want them…”

He nods. Though I started with words, I don’t need to finish with them. I remember what we spoke about yesterday, how you can have restaurant and shopping districts, but not cinema districts. Galleries and museums, too. But not cinemas or churches.

My dad and step-mum join us. They’re keen to go in though it’s half an hour before the film is due to start. It’s all going okay, this visit. I’m surprisingly free of tension. The situation feels steady, too. There are moments where I feel invisible again but they pass.

As a teacher recruitment PSA plays, all changing lives of the youth and no mention of poor pay and long hours, my husband and I take the piss, turning to each other in the hushed tones that the cinema requires. A woman sitting in front of us turns her head and shushes, with a look of sheer disgust. I go into the all-too-usual primal freeze.

“All right, sorry,” he mumbles, “it’s just the adverts…”

Not even the trailers, I think, as my cheeks burn. I managed, through some grace I wrenched from somewhere, to hope, for her sake, that her day got better from here.

The film gives too much credence to the sway that the past, real and imagined, has over the future. We all agree that it was boring and go home.