my 15th birthday is next week, I promise

Popcorn and fake lasers.: date night at the Court Street Stadium 9000 and we’ve been planning this for months. We ride the escalator up 40 floors, past concessions and spilt skittles, up another floor, another, up like Jacob’s Ladder, there is no movie, only time. Fourteen-year-olds are cutting it close to curfew, clutching their boyfriends’ hands and charged, lips glossy, half-shirts tied up after they left the house. God willing, some of them will kiss in the theater and miss the plot. Ring 2 is bad, but in a surprise-scare moment I jump, flick my wrist and my m&ms scatter across the aisle.
In October 2003 Steven and I saw The Ring at the Park Slope Pavilion on one of my CMJ visits, before I moved here, so tonight was our anniversary of sorts, a commemorative eve. The movie itself, no–the screaming kids in the theater, yes. It was Friday night license for untethering one’s lips and lungs. You can scream in the library on Friday night.
Two other things from that CMJ visit: 1. the infamous MOP “fuck a brick” roundtable at Bubbe’s (which also included Chris Ryan and Rjyan Kidwell), wherein I admitted my affinity for sides C and D of LL Cool J’s Greatest Hits on vinyl: the slow jams. Even “Hey Lover.” (“I love LL Cool J’s Greatest Hits sides C and D: the slow jams!” I was bleating, and Sasha joked, “Do you need love?” Wah, wah.)
2. I longed for Ezra, who was on some crazy Mexican expedition with his adventuresome chef-dad, visiting the cactus farms which produce the world’s finest tequila, and are guarded by men lugging the world’s heaviest artillery. We were still honeymooning, I was carrying a Polaroid around in my notebook, and Steve told me after The Ring 1 that while he appreciated that Ezra was the sweetest, smartest, funniest, cutest boy in the entire universe (still is. ladies, don’t sleep), he would like it if we could maybe discuss something else.
So I was all, “Securities trading: you have a future in those.”