I was attached to this place when I was young. Was there nearly every weekend, always counting the days until I could go back.

We all know what became of it. This dying thing isn’t the same anymore.

Things change. That’s just what happens.

Still, I miss it.

---

I remember the tacky touch of plastic wrapped around the cases. My lids blink slow and heavy. In front of me, CDs are stacked in tight rows. I’m in the S section.

A loud snort. I glance left. Two girls giggling.

Are they laughing at me? I turn away.

My fingertips graze the bands Slayer, Skid Row, then Sublime. Doesn’t matter the store or the mall. The CDs are always out of order.

Their laughter rises into high-pitched cackles, following me down the aisle. I flip through faster. Sweat beads above my lip. Then I see my friends by the entrance, it’s time.

The escalator ride to the theater feels long. I glance down, watch the mall floor pull away. My friends are a step ahead, laughing at something I missed. We reach the landing and push through the glass double doors.

Sneakers sliding over vermilion carpet. There’s high-gloss tile. Air thick with buttered popcorn. We wait in line at the concession.

I dig into my pocket, pull out a ten. Hamilton stares up at me—judgmental, like a father might. A penny slips loose and strikes the tile.

Ding. Ding.

The sound cuts through the noise, the chatter, the squeak of sneakers like it’s marking the end of something.

At our seats, the flip-up chair squeaks as I sink into it. We pass a bucket of popcorn. I grab a handful and layer it over my nachos. My iced soda rests in the arm holder.

Before the previews start, I eat and sip. Salt clings to my fingers. I wipe them on my jeans. Then the lights dim. The screen blooms green. The rating card appears and the previews begin.

But nature calls. I stand, hand off my nachos, tell them not to eat them.

The restroom doors swings open with a squeal. Inside toilets hiss. Faucets choke. Fluorescents hum overhead. Bleach clings to faux marble. Still, the smell of urine lingers.

When I finish, I wash my hands, never glancing in the mirror. Eyes fixed on the water washing over my knuckles. The dispenser buzzes. I rip a sheet to dry my hands, but steal a glance, and regret it.

Uneven eyes. Thick, unruly brows. Blackheads scattered across a wide nose.

The thin, damp paper clings to my fingers like loose skin peeled from muscle. For a moment I pretend the sheet is my face and toss it into the bin. I don’t know which is more frightening: pretending or wishing it was.

In the theater, green text fills the screen, cascading down like a waterfall. My hands still feel damp. I brush them on my jeans before shuffling down the aisle.

“Sorry,” I whisper to the woman whose shoes I step on.

When I sit back, my nachos are gone. A few kernels of popcorn remain. I take a sip and glance at the screen.

A woman in tight patent leather leaps into the air. In slow motion, she strikes the officer in front of her. Then the action snaps back to full speed.

My jaw drops. I forget the nachos, the face in the mirror, the look Hamilton gave me. I don’t look away.