The yellow popcorn tasted like garlic paper. The carpet radiated mold.
She met her husband there and escaped with him before the opening credits scrolled off the screen. Her bunions throbbed in her pointed pumps, but progress never comes without pain. He fished his fingers into his buttoned collar like he was choking, but he shared her sentiment. They eloped.
They fused over a desire to not smell musty; leave and cleave to a puffy-skirted, gleaming-shoed dream.
Like in the movies, they slept under plush duvets, learned to drink sweet tea, swallowed their accents deep inside, and lived terrified they’d wake.