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Falling for Grace—a true story
The cinema’s foyer
had nothing cheerful. Worn red and brown carpet, threadbare in spots, covered
the floor. Loveseats with holes from cig burns occupied a corner. The sweet
smell of marijuana lingered.
Charming.
I twitched my
nose, taking in the crowd of hippies cramming the hall. Long hair, rainbow
clothes, flowers… as if we were still in the seventies. A unicorn would’ve
completed the picture. I inched forward in the queue to buy my ticket. Anne and
her boyfriend Mike stood in front of me, arms wrapped around each other.
Anne turned
and frowned at me. Her long brown braid swished about her waist. “Jay, you sure
about this? You really want to see this film?”
“This isn’t
Fast and Furious, you know that,” Mark added, pushing his glasses up his nose.
I sucked in a
deep breath, going dizzy from the Maryjane. The poster of the soon-to-begin
movie hung on a wall. A train station soaked with rain and a tattered luggage,
like one of those suitcases Irish immigrants used to travel with in the US,
filled the picture. Nope, it wasn’t F&F. A four and half hours film
directed by a Russian guy with a name not even his mother could pronounce was tonight
movie. The Endless Travel of Mrs Nobovsky:
the title was written in small white letters as if the director felt ashamed of
having shot it.
I groaned. But
love brought me here, and here I’d stay, and I’m a man of my word.
“Totally sure,
guys. I’m staying.” I twirled my wallet and adjusted my blue hoodie. It was
brand new, still smelled of the softener Mum used, and matched the colour of my
eyes, or at least so my sis had said. I was aiming to impress, and chicks loved
blue and men who smelled nice.
Anne shook her
head, moving forward. “You’ll get bored. Why did you decide to come, anyway?”
“Grace,” I
replied without hesitation. Just saying her name sent my heart into hyper-drive.
“Grace?” Anne
scrunched her face in a “she’s out of your league” expression.
Yeah, maybe
she was, but I was ready to give it a try. We had talked a few times. She knew
my name. That was a start.
“The new
girl?” Mike asked.
“Yep.” I closed
my eyes for a moment. Her perfectly oval face, auburn hair, and brown eyes
materialised in front of me. “She should be here. I heard her talking about
coming tonight with her friend on the bus.”
Anne turned
around. “You sure? I don’t see her.”
“She’ll be
here. I have a good feeling.” I paid for my ticket and held it in my hand. This
ticket would be my most valued treasure. When Grace and I were grandparents,
we’d remember this night and this movie as the one that brought us together. Grace
was my one true love. I knew it. I could feel
it. She would be here.
I sat in one of the stuffy chairs of the
theatre. People chatted and drank from plastic bottles as they found their
seats. My heart skipped a beat as a girl with a red hat weaved her way through
the crowd. But nope. It wasn’t my Grace. My
Grace… it sounded perfect. A man with a long auburn ponytail sent my
stomach rolling. With a sigh, I slouched back on the chair. Grace would be
here.
The lights
died down in sync with the chatter. Ambient music drifted out of the speakers,
and the screen turned a chaos of yellow, green, and blue. I shifted on the seat,
searching around. The light glinting off the screen gave enough illumination to
make out a few faces. Grace’s wasn’t among them. I could’ve asked her phone
number, but what was the point when I could sense her presence? We were
soulmates after all.
The film
opened with a woman dressed in a grey coat and sitting in a train. She looked
outside. The view was all white and grey stuff. No other person was around. Her
sad dark eyes kept looking outside… and kept looking… and looking.
Geez. I rubbed my face. Ten minutes of
this stuff and I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t give up at the first obstacle
in the path of a happily ever after. That was my plan: Grace would come here, see
me, realise what a profound and sensitive guy I am—because only a profound and sensitive
guy would watch this, right?—and then she
would ask me out. See the perfection of the plan? I wouldn’t
need to strive or stress or get my knickers in a knot, worrying about asking
her out. One boring movie and she would do the rest. I was impressed by my
cleverness. Yet, as the still unnamed woman in the screen stared out of the
window, boredom appeared with a dark cape and a scythe.
“Marvellous
photography,” Anne whispered.
“Shush!” Mark
chided as if the scene was hard to follow.
I fished out my
phone. Guess I could pass the time, and I’d be able to follow the plot. The phone’s
screen came back to life, shading blue light on my hands, and the welcome music
sang out. Someone patted me on the shoulder.
“Turn that off
or go out,” a female voice hissed from behind me.
I turned and
faced three angry women, staring at me. Bushy hair, narrowed eyes, and bared
teeth.
I gestured to
the film where the rat-rat of the train was the only sound. “Nothing is
happening.” Honestly, the Russian chick there could be dead and hibernating in
Siberia.
“Put that
out,” the three weird sisters straight
out of Macbeth chorused.
“Fine!” I switched
off the phone and folded my arms across my chest. I’d do anything for Grace,
even endure three witches.
I jolted as
the Russian woman finally spoke… in Russian. I had barely time to read the
subtitles, which contained many, many more words than she could’ve possibly
pronounced, that the dialog was over.
“What did she
say?” I asked Anne.
“That she—”
“Shush!” the
witches repeated.
Anne shrank in
the seat and hid her face in her scarf.
Great. I scoffed, ready to endure four
hours of Russian snowy landscape before another line of dialog appeared.
Forty minutes
later, I started to hear voices. Seriously, I did. It was because of the silence.
Not even music played. My friend Max, who did spelunking, once had remained
trapped in a cave for a couple of hours. Alone and without any light. After
twenty minutes, he heard people talking and laughing, a trick of his
imagination, and he answered back. I’d always thought it was rubbish, yet here
I was, hearing voices.
Another silent
woman had joined the Russian cast. Now the two protagonists were observing each
other in a staring contest not even Clint Eastwood would win.
With a sigh, I
reclined my head backward. Gosh, I needed a break. My butt felt numb, and by
now I’d memorised every stain in the seat in front of me: a chewed gum, a
greasy thingy, and a scratch like from a cat’s claws, and other tiny spots that
seemed to form a pattern. Maybe if I used a pen to join them with a line, a
secret message would appear.
I checked the
time. Only an hour had passed… three and a half more to go.
By the end of
the second hour, a third woman had joined the story and now she and the other
two women were in a Mexican standoff, looking at each other. I’d admit that if
they had had guns, it could’ve almost worked. If I could’ve slept, I would’ve
done it. But what if I fell asleep and Grace came and I didn’t see her?
And then it
flooded me: Grace’s presence.
I searched around.
She had to be here, somewhere. Her sweet soul called to my heart.
Slowly, I
stood up and walked along the row of seats. Anne barely glanced at me, too
immersed in the Mexican standoff. I didn’t need any light. I didn’t need to
know where Grace was. The bond between us would guide me to her.
“Ouch!” a
woman said as I tried to brush past her. “That was my foot.”
“Sorry,” I
muttered.
Once I reached
the aisle, I inhaled deeply. Grace, where
are you?
My feet pushed
me forward on their own accord. Joy filled my heart. Grace was here, somewhere,
and soon I’d meet her. I climbed the shallow steps toward the end of the hall.
In the last row of seats, under the dim glow of the emergency light, an auburn
head appeared like a mirage. I paused, my heart beating a wild rhythm. It was her. My soulmate, my angel. My efforts
had been repaid. Except that… I tilted my head. What was she doing? I squinted
and inched closer. A man was hunched over her, kissing her. Her arms circled
his neck.
My mouth hung
open, and my heart dropped to the floor. The vision crushed all my dreams. Years
of loneliness stretched out in front of him. I would never marry anyone if I
couldn’t have Grace. Maybe I could ask a monastery to take me, learn to grow
stuff, meditate… until this pain faded. Oh well, why was I surprised? A smart,
beautiful girl like Grace would have dozens of men throwing themselves at her.
I was no one.
I was about to
leave when I stopped. Wait a second. We
were soulmates. I couldn’t give up so easily. With new resolution, I stepped
closer, not sure what I wanted to do, maybe just let her know I was here.
Grace lifted
her gaze to me and scowled. “What the heck do you want, perv?”
Oops, the
voice sounded all wrong, low and raspy, while Grace’s was sweet. And now that I
stood close, even the nose, mouth, and face were wrong. This wasn’t Grace. I
sagged in relief. Phew! No priests and meditation for now.
The man rose
and almost came chest to chest with me. “Why don’t you leave?” he hissed into
my ear.
A few people
shushed us, and I shrank backward, lifting an apologetic hand. “Sorry.”
I jogged to my
seat. How could I have doubted the power of love? Of course it wasn’t Grace.
Happy that the universe wasn’t against me, I sat again, ready to endure another
three hours of torture for her.
Okay, I wasn’t so ready. After another hour, I had learned a few Russian words: zavtrak, breakfast; Ya ne govoryu po-russki, I don’t speak Russian; and Gde vodka? Where’s the vodka? Which pretty much summed up the entire film. It had to be the shortest script in the world.
The next hour
crawled. I drummed my finger on my leg… counted the spots on the chair in front
of me… played the entire repertoire of Coldplay in my head… On the screen, more
snow, grey landscapes, and silence.
By the time
the fourth hour had passed, tears burned my eyes and stifled sobs hurt my
throat. When the words ‘the end’ scrolled, I punched the air. “Yeah!”
I left the
hall in a daze like the wake up after surgery. Grace hadn’t come. I’d been
tortured for four and half hours. My muscles throbbed, my eyes hurt, and my
brain might not recover. Ever. The chatter around me was an indistinct noise.
Even the people mingled into a confused blur.
“Wonderful
film,” Anne said, her eyes brightening. “So poetic.”
“Huh?” I
needed water, coffee, tea, anything liquid.
On wobbly
legs, I headed to the vending machine, jabbed a few coins inside, and grabbed a
bottle of whatever. The cold drink refreshed my head and soothed my throat.
What a nightmare. When I got home, I’d start an F&F marathon to recover. I
felt like I needed a shower or something, and—
“I can’t
believe you’re here,” a sweet voice said from behind me.
I swallowed
and pivoted, one inch at a time. Here she was, my one true love. She looked
adorable with her auburn curls framing her face, pink lipstick, and a pair of
tight jeans.
“H-hi.” I
waved a hand.
She moved
closer, her flowery scent enveloping me, and slid a hand into mine. My head
spun, and my heart drummed so fast I had a rush of oxygen in my brain that made
me dizzy.
“I’ve just
arrived. Are you here to see the film, too? Would you sit next to me?”
I stared into
her brown eyes, then to our joined hands, and then to the door that led to
theatre and to four hours of torture. My brain pleaded to go home, my legs
thought it was a good idea, too.
“Yes,” I
replied.
THE END
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