“The beginning,” Caio says.
“What?”
“The first movie is called Zombie Robots: The Beginning.”
“Hollywood makes no sense,” I decide, and get in line for the tickets.
“Can we get popcorn?” Caio asks when I come back with our two tickets.
“Yeah! Which one do you want?”
“Maybe a large with butter to share? Oh, no! Never mind. You don’t like it with butter. So get a medium just for me.”
I’m surprised because I don’t even remember telling him that I don’t like butter on my popcorn.
We stand in the line for popcorn, which is longer than we could have anticipated for a Wednesday afternoon. Kids are running and screaming all around us, acting out a kid’s version of The Hunger Games. Impatient parents roll their eyes at other people’s kids and try to keep their own kids by their sides. It’s probably the combination of school break and Forest Gone Wild!
When it’s finally my turn, I order the two popcorns, and even though they’re both medium, I get “the look” from the cashier. When you’re fat, there are two variations of “the look” that you might get in food-related situations:
The look you get when you order a small means, “You’re that big and you’re trying to watch what you eat?”
The look you get when you order a large means, “You’re that big and you still can’t stop eating?”
All of which is to say that if you’re fat, you’re never right.
I try not to mind the look for now. In the end, it’s not too hard because Caio is so excited to spend the next couple of hours watching robot zombies on a giant screen that I end up feeling excited, too.
When we enter, the movie theater is almost empty. There are some couples scattered around the sides, an elderly man who came to the movies by himself, and a group of friends, laughing hysterically. We go straight to the back of the theater (because I’m tall and don’t want to be in anyone’s way), and when I sit down, I curse the designer of this movie theater’s chairs under my breath. Or of movie theaters in general. The person who came up with this seat definitely did not consider the existence of people my size.
I take a seat, uncomfortably, my legs squeezed by the row in front and my arms without room to move freely. I look like a T. rex holding a popcorn bucket. Caio is sitting to my right, and he seems relaxed and comfortable. I think about complaining about the size of these seats with Caio, just to vent, but when I open my mouth, the lights go off and the trailers begin.
My hands automatically break into a sweat, and I eat some popcorn to put my mind at ease. The movie starts, and after half an hour I realize that I haven’t been paying attention to anything. My leg is shaking, and I try to coordinate its rhythm with the explosions on the screen.
The group of friends in the theater talks loudly during the movie, but no one seems to mind. Some couples are kissing in a very, um, intimate way. And the older man who was by himself already left, probably offended by the low quality of the special effects in Zombie Robots: The Attack 2.
An hour later, I realize I’m done with my popcorn, and I haven’t had one sip of my soda. My mouth is dry, and I reach out to grab the Coke resting in the cup holder by my side. The Coke is watery, the ice is all melted, but it’s still refreshing.
When I finally let go of the cup and am about to go back to my original T. rex pose, placing my hands on my belly to try and take up less space, it happens.
Caio leans against my arm, slides his fingers down to my hand, and squeezes it. I hold back an anxious breath, not quite sure what’s going on. We’re holding hands, and from that moment on, I officially cannot pay any attention to the robot zombies destroying the human race. Because Caio and I are holding hands. Because my hand is gross with sweat. And yet, he won’t let go.
I want to glance to the side and see what face Caio is making as he holds my hand. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I stare instead at the movie screen and watch the images flash by one after the other, but I don’t care about any of them.
Time flies, and I get the sense that the movie is about to end. The hero saved the planet from the zombies and finally rescued his girlfriend. The two of them meet in a postwar scene. He’s all dirty and manly; she’s all proper, wearing makeup and short-shorts despite the apocalypse. They kiss, and that’s when Caio squeezes my hand a little harder. It’s not quite a crunch. More like a light pressure. But I believe it’s a sign. A sign that I’m the sweaty hero he’d like to kiss. Or a sign that the movie is about to end, and he’d like to let go of my hand.
I open my fingers slightly, giving him the freedom to let go. But he doesn’t. That’s a good thing.
The movie ends, the credits start rolling. But the lights don’t come back on because apparently it’s illegal to create movies without scenes after the credits now. So no one budges. The whole audience just sits there, listening through a bad Linkin Park song that’s probably featured on the soundtrack of Zombie Robots: The Attack 2. My heart is beating with the rhythm of the fast and heavy music, but when Caio slides his finger down the back of my hand, my heart skips a beat.
It’s hard to focus on anything other than the touch of his hand. I feel like time is passing and I need to make a move, quickly. I look up at the credits, and what I see is:
Make it clear that you like him.
—Becky
Be Brave.
—Grandma
Caio is a little slow, but he’s a sweetheart.
—Becky, again
There’s no need to be afraid anymore.
—the Cowardly Lion (and also my therapist)
Your capabilities are as big as your courage.
—any self-help book
So I take a deep breath. Squeeze Caio’s hand really tight, not caring if I’m hurting him or not. (I probably am.) And look at him.
When I turn my face, I find he’s already looking at me. I don’t know for how long, but there he is. Waiting for me. The refrain of the song from the movie credits is already in its third cycle. I don’t have a lot of time.
I bite my lip.
Close my eyes.
And kiss Caio.
He kisses me back, and I try to manage the right amount of tongue and saliva. It’s not the perfect kiss, like the ones I always see in movies, because A) it tastes like butter, and B) Linkin Park is playing. But I never thought kissing would be like this. It’s a nice, slippery feeling. Caio’s lips are soft but not flabby. They’re like gummy bears. And from the way he’s kissing me, it seems I’m not too bad, either.
I don’t know how long our kiss lasts, but when we separate, we both look at the movie screen. The post-credits scene is almost done. We still have a little while.
So we kiss each other again.
We’re a kissing machine.
Kissing zombie robots.
I don’t ever want to stop, but when the lights come on, we do.
The theater is empty except for the cleaning guy who’s sweeping the first row and pretending we’re not there.
We get up at the same time. I drop my empty popcorn bucket. I try to crouch to pick it up, but the space is too tight. I decide to let it go and leave, and then I trip over my own bucket and drop my empty soda cup, too. I’m such a disaster.
When we leave the movies, I feel my face burning. I want to scream, but I don’t know if that would be appropriate. I also don’t know if it’s humanly possible to sweat the way I’m sweating right now.