Match trembling, he lit a cigarette and took a drag. Soon, a white, smokey cloud shrouded the balcony's edge. Rain splattered his suit and tie. Coughing, his cigarette almost slid from his fingers.
Tobacco stung my nostrils. My head throbbed. There was ruffling of popcorn bags, the gentle hum of the AC unit, an old man's wheezy cough. And tobacco. 'Don't think about it, don't think about it.'
I crossed my arms, gritting my teeth. The dim grey theater blackened at the edge of my peripheral vision. I thought, 'I want...no, I need a cigarette.' The room sweltered like an August afternoon. Or was I just cold? I smelled buttered popcorn, body odor that musty cologne failed to conceal, and tobacco. My hands tingled. 'Don't think about it, don't think about it.'
My dutiful gaze tore away from the screen, stealing a glance beside me. Was an old film really his ideal date? He was glued to the screen. Tears swelled at his ducts. His thick brows furrowed in concentration, quivering as if fighting his tears from falling.
Focus returning to me, the protagonist exhaled the last of his cigarette with relief and flicked its filter aside. 'Don't think about it, don't—'
Warmth shot through my cold hand and to my fingertips. I jolted upright in my seat and turned. The faint glow of the screen caught the brown of his concerned eyes, reflecting them like wheat fields in the sun.
"Are you okay?" He whispered.
I sunk into my seat and interlocked fingers with his. What had I been thinking? I don't remember. Was it even important?