Gyna leans over to me, keeping her eyes on the big screen. "What. The fuck."
"Dude, every single time that guy gets up to go to the bathroom the guy behind us goes with him."
"I think they're giving each other secret blow jobs."
"I think they're going to blow up the movie theater."
"No, seriously, they touch each other."
I nod, giggling. "Glory hole, dude. Glory hole."
It would be boldly poetic, though, if these two movie patrons blew up the theater during Inglourious Basterds.
"Either way, they make it quick," Gyna snides out of the corner of her mouth as the two guys slip back into the theater. One climbs over us to get to his seat, and the other is sitting in the row behind us. By themselves. This is some suspicious shit.
The guy in our row settles into his seat, whips out his phone and starts texting. Look at that fucker, all flustered and skulky. What if they're seriously going to blow up the movie theater? It's possible, right, that terrorist plots are afoot? He and his buddy must be vengeful Nazi descendants seeking retribution from naive, unsuspecting Americans who carve bogus histories with Brad Pitt and Eli Roth (who is totally Zachary Quinto's Don Swayze) and mercilessly mock die deutschen Helder des Drittes Reichs.
"Okay, if they're blowing up the theater, we're going for that exit," I say to Gyna, nodding towards the exit sign to the right of the screen. I reach for my purse. She better fucking run if these guys are setting off a bomb, or I'm gonna step on her. Oh, I'll be so pissed off if his phone is a remote detonator and I die before this movie ends because then I will haunt the fuck out of him. Although, if I could die during any movie, I would prefer it to be a Tarantino movie. I duck down and look under the row of seats. No bomb here. But you never know, those basterds are crazy.
I feel around inside my purse and grab my keys. Okay, if ze Germans are blasting the theater, I'm utilizing my utilikey as defense against thwarters. There's totally a blade on there, and I've used it. Sure, it was to slice up limes for my gin and tonic at this ridiculous Paparazzi Party awhile ago, and we all know that night turned out great, so it's not like the two inch knife has gone through weapons testing. But it makes decent citrus cutlery, and that's a start.
They're probably going to sync up the explosion with the movie. Be ready, Rass - are you fucking kidding me? This guy needs to go to the bathroom again? I will cut you.
"There they fucking go again."
"I know." Track them with my eyes. I will be ready for your bomb, you sonsabitches.
"Man love!" Gyna sings quietly.
"They were totally texting each other--"
"Oh my god."
"--plotting their terrorist activities."
"I still think it's a sexual rendezvous."
Yes, we're Those People talking during the movie. I'm convinced that if there's going to be an explosion, it'll probably be now when they're not in the theater. We're not dealing with suicide bombers, here, these are soldiers of vengeance. They want to gloat in the aftermath.
Then the guys scoot back in and return to their seats, climbing over us, apologizing for the intrusion. I smile, because it occurs to me that I'm completely overreacting.
I totally was.
The movie ends well, the way movies should, and we head out of the theater.
Gyna gathers up her purse. "I cannot believe how many times that guy went to the bathroom."
"I cannot believe I honestly thought he was going to blow us all up."
"Sorry about that, guys," Guy Who Is Not A Terrorist interrupts our conversation, "I guess I have a small bladder."
I look at him and shake my head. "I seriously thought you were planning on blowing up the theater."
And then he totally hit on Gyna.