My wife has read a film review, and now wants to see a film. “We could go tomorrow,” she says. “It’s not as if we’re doing anything else.”
“Maybe,” I say. My wife picks up the iPad.
“It’s only on at one place,” she says. “First showing at 6.”
“Nothing earlier?”
“Shall I book anyway?” she asks. “I’ll book anyway.”
“Well,” I say.
“Where do you want to sit? Sort of middle middle?” I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is: this is all happening too fast.
When we arrive at the cinema the next evening there is a short queue – just one person ahead of us.
“We’re a bit early,” my wife says. “Never mind. We can drink.”
The queue clears, but before my wife and I can step forward, a middle-aged woman walks directly in front of us and takes our place. It is a mildly jaw-dropping moment – a comprehensive violation of common courtesy.
“That is unbelievable,” my wife says. The woman produces some kind of loyalty card and launches into a very long question about the nature of the discount she is entitled to. She has an American accent, a detail that might have been intentionally added to further enrage my wife.
“I’m going to go berserk,” my wife says.
“I don’t think you should,” I say. “And I’ll explain why.”
“I’m shaking with irritation,” my wife says. “I can’t help it.” The woman is waving her card in the air as she speaks.
“In my experience,” I say quietly, “a failure to observe basic social norms is often the result of some intractable deficiency.”
“I don’t care,” my wife says, very loudly.
“It would probably be a deeply unsatisfactory confrontation, is what I’m saying. Let it go.”
“I can’t,” my wife says.
“Try,” I say. Just then another member of staff appears, waving us forward. The moment passes, and I feel I have done something for the world.
A few minutes later we are in our seats, with wine.
“I don’t know why I bothered booking,” my wife says. “There’s no one here.”
“We are early,” I say. The American woman enters the mostly empty cinema with a large box of popcorn and sits at the end of our aisle, three seats away.
“I’m going to kill her,” my wife whispers.
“Calmly,” I say.
The lights dim. The ads begin. Although the cinema remains sparsely populated, people sit directly in front of us, and behind us. I imagine a dozen couples at home with iPads, all selecting middle middle, unthinkingly violating basic social norms. A couple sit right next to us, even though our row is empty apart from the American woman on the end. After a few minutes my wife turns to the woman directly next to her and points to me.
“I’m just going to sit the other side of him,” she says. “So we’ll both have a free armrest.”
“Oh,” says the woman. “There’s no need to…”
“Don’t worry,” my wife says, climbing over me. “More room for everyone.”
“That’s very kind,” says the woman. “But what if that seat is taken?”
“Then I’ll just come back,” my wife says. “It’s fine, I know you now.”
The film begins. I can’t concentrate, because the American woman is scraping the bottom of her popcorn box with long fingernails. I don’t usually get irritated by this sort of thing, but I find I can’t help myself. Then she begins to laugh loudly at inappropriate moments. I turn to my wife, but she hasn’t even noticed – she’s wholly engrossed in the film. For her it’s already a highly successful outing. She’s made a friend, and bequeathed me an enemy.
