Solo at the Cinema

Friday — 8:00 p.m. — Watershed Cafe and Cinema

The pub on the harborside bustles with activity. A group of bearded men erupt in laughter as they order another round.

I’ve just claimed my free ticket to the Oscar-nominated short films with reward points. I order a black coffee and chunky chips and wait for showtime.

Evidently, the elderly man at the adjacent table has a similar idea. He’s methodically working on a plate of fish and chips and a pint of cider. He’s wearing khakis with a navy jumper and shiny square-toed oxfords.

The smell of lemon drifts to my table and now I desperately need fish and chips. I can’t help but feel the two of us are comrades, together in our aloneness.

My new friend is balding with a caramel complexion and dapper Windsor glasses, while I’m sporting sunglasses as a makeshift headband for unwashed hair.

He eats quietly and deliberately, seemingly unaware of any activity happening around him. In between stares I come up with outlandish tales about his life. Maybe he’s here on a business trip. I decide that’s what I’ll tell anyone who might inquire as to why I’m eating alone at the cinema on a Friday night: “Oh yes, haha! So you see, I’m an American businesswoman here on business. Yes, that’s right. Cheers!”

My chunky chips are delightful, but I’m disappointed they’ve replaced the normal garlic mayo with some sort of inferior tartar sauce.

Now my friend has become preoccupied with his phone. I notice he hasn’t finished the fish or cider. They look delicious. He peers up from his screen to stab another bite as I look on with envy.

My bowl of chunky chips, likely meant to be an appetizer for four, sits empty. Now he’s just toying with me, cutting one of the remaining bites in half to take a nibble.

Is he waiting for the screening too? Maybe we can sit together. A man four tables over has an unrelenting cough—the wheezing kind. I wonder what his Friday night plans involve. He can sit with us.

A young couple I can only describe as jolly sits at the nearest table. They didn’t pick up on the “loner only” vibe and have now ruined the aesthetic.

Now my bald friend’s final bite perches at the edge of his plate. Abruptly, he wipes his mouth and stands to leave. His table is immediately taken by two women who do not know the meaning of inside voices. He didn’t even say goodbye.

It turns out that sometimes a pretend loner stranger friend is better than a real one. Now in the cinema, the lights dim and an arm juts across the empty seats toward me. It’s another man, alone, offering what looks like a piece of gum. Confused, I take it and offer a weak smile before stuffing it in the cup holder. Intermission can’t come soon enough.

The lights come up and people shuffle to the lobby. The chewing gum man appears out of nowhere. “Hi! My name is Diego. And you are?” I reluctantly give my name and listen as he prattles on about moving here from Italy and enjoying English hospitality. I abruptly announce I need the ladies room, but hope he enjoys the show.

I spend at least fifteen minutes hiding in the bathroom, scrolling my phone on the toilet. Diego is waiting outside the door.

“The show is starting soon! I go to buy us snacks.”

I hurry into the theater and sit in the third row sandwiched between two couples, far away from my previous back row spot with Diego and the gum.

He clocks me immediately and bounds over with two bags of overflowing popcorn and crisps. Plucking up the courage to be mean, I decline any more offers of snacks, make no effort to move my bag from the seat, and turn my attention to the screen. That does the trick.

I briefly glance back to make sure he’s firmly seated far away and see my bald friend chowing down on a bag of pick-n-mix, blissful in his solitude.