On days I wasn't in school, I'd cross into its chill dark, descend that steep carpeted aisle, sink into my worn plush seat, as dark- rimmed eyes from the Odessa Steps sequence of Battleship Potemkin pleaded with me from the murals covering both walls, though I ignored them, intent instead on those shadows before me, much larger than I, but condemned, it seemed, to confront me with all that I was missing or, of course, had yet to miss. One afternoon I watched Cocteau's La Belle et la Bête twice in one sitting, each time disappointed by its ending, not yet understanding that such disappointment may have been the artist's intention, though even Garbo is said to have cried out when she first saw it, Give me back my beast, as the lights came up for her as they would for me, and I trudged back into the lobby unsettled because I had eaten nothing but concessions that day, and because, glancing back I could see only ushers sweeping up, while ahead of me burned a day so bright I wondered if it would hurt like that forever.

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