Rainy day at the theater
Thiophene_Guy
The Hamilton — this is what a movie theater is supposed to look like. It’s neither a temple nor a private club, but it has elements of both. It’s a place where people gather silently in the dark in the hope of witnessing and believing in something larger than themselves.
Within those walls you can find yourself slow-poisoned by a shadowy figure who demands you break into the bank where you work in exchange for the antidote. You can encounter a woman at the glove counter who tells you about the dog she had as a girl — she called him Raffles — and those gloves remind her of his cute little floppy ears, and they’re the only pair in stock and would you mind terribly if she took them, she’d be ever so grateful. You may stagger out of the smoking soon-to-explode wreck of your twin engine Cessna, hoping your last radio transmission made it through because you were off-course and it looks like a hell of a storm is coming. And somebody has to get the receipt for those gloves before the slow poison takes effect and hypothermia sets in, and she was lying about little floppy-eared Raffles, but you really don’t care because the credits roll and you are abruptly dumped outside in the shocking daylight.
Your prayers can be answered at the Hamilton. At twenty-four frames per second, for a hundred and twenty minutes. Matinee and senior discounts are offered.
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