From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: Cinema Sin   
      
   by bobandcarole   
      
       It was one of those unpredictable, tormenting delays, finger-   
       drumming irritation behind half-reflecting sunglass-lenses in the   
       sweltering sauna of summer, the sticky sweatfulness of global   
       warming that fanned to a white ember the single eye of the sun   
       glaring down from the zenith, watching the guzzling humvees   
       huffing and puffing by on the cement city street ugly with   
       buglike shiny vehicles spewing heat and fumes into the   
       atmosphere, while standing in line at the drugstore awaiting the   
       cashier's attention to complete the purchase of mouthwash, held   
       up by the insufferably inept fumbling of a dumpy middle-aged   
       woman with angry dark circles under her eyes as she rummaged for   
       a dogeared checkbook with which to pay for her cigarettes and   
       tabloid, across from the sweet sycophantic beautifully adorned   
       teen girl in braces behind the counter, who patiently waited with   
       no complaint.   
      
       Yet, minus the delay, I might never have met Ozzia. For it was   
       the exact timing of arrival that determined my position in line   
       immediately behind the group of girls she was with, and the   
       chance glance in impatience and anticipation of blindingly   
       splashed summer escapism in the cool darkness of the theatrical   
       mindlessness that caused her to turn, smiling, and say "Hi."   
      
       It caught me by surprise, the simple word. It blew apart my   
       reverie, severing my solitude with the sonic insertion of a   
       simple syllable, forced me to remember that others existed apart   
       from me, and in particular a very beautiful other standing in   
       line in front of me, slender in her tenderness of time, breasts   
       yet unformed on her young skinny torso clad in white Bob Marley   
       T-shirt and draped with shiny Mardi-Gras beads, grinning with the   
       carefree glee of youth as the threads of our lives briefly   
       connected.   
      
       "Hi," I said back. Her grin widened even further at my response.   
       "What are you seeing?" impulsively I blurted, immediately   
       regretting my forwardness.   
      
       "Spy kids," she replied. Her friends glanced askance at our   
       unconventional conversing.   
      
       "Me too," I mumbled, aiming to drop the subject before it strayed   
       to the sexiness of the female lead.   
      
       "Kewl!" she semi-spoke, semi-squealed, then turned back to her   
       friends, as they exchanged a few words and chattering giggles.   
      
       I fidgeted, bumblingly fumbling through my pockets for the   
       dollars I would soon need to surrender.   
      
       I thought our conversation was done, but she turned back and   
       popped her soft, smooth innocent moist smile back into intimate   
       presence inches away from mine. "They want to know if you've got   
       a date?" she asked.   
      
       Right. The perfect movie to take a date to, with a sexy pre-   
       pubescent female lead any reasonable adult female would be sure   
       to scorn.   
      
       "No," I replied, then foolishly blurted "Do you?"   
      
       "No," she said, turning back to her friends, nervous giggling now   
       with a more pointed edge.   
      
       The line moved, the gears turned, a conversation with a uniform-   
       clad teen girl inside a glass box, barely audible responses   
       strained by the funnel of a little speaking-hole as she sat   
       lazily, nonchalantly behind her cash register and punched buttons   
       on the console in front of her to spit out little pieces of   
       colorful paper, and money changed hands in exchange for paper   
       tokens of entertainment value with logo on front and words of   
       disclaimer in tiny print on the back, which no doubt would have   
       informed me (had I bothered to read them) that the theatre would   
       not be responsible should someone disrupt the intense silence of   
       the climactic scene with some bit of crude inane gossip, nor   
       would they refund my hard-earned cash should the dialog fall   
       flat, or the plot lines induce somnambulism.   
      
       Meanwhile, a database tallying the totals of millions-sold   
       silently acknowledged the transaction, collecting statistical   
       news eagerly awaited by director, producer, and CEO. A handful of   
       numeric digits to be gloated over or mourned next morning while   
       scanning the internet over gleaming espressos in home-offices by   
       robe- and slipper-clad bitter rivals from opposing corporations.   
      
       Glancing at the slim margin of minutes remaining before the film,   
       I strode with brusque impatience to the next obstacle standing   
       between me and my escapist entertainment, the queue awaiting the   
       tearing of tickets by a bored teenage lad outfitted once more in   
       the inevitable conductor's uniform composed of fabric somehow   
       reminiscent of a sofa lining.   
      
       At this juncture I would like to clarify a particular point in   
       defence of my innocence, namely that when, in my impatient stride   
       I overstepped slightly, and gently bumped into the tender pre-   
       teen girl with whom I had been conversing, it was entirely an   
       accident. Now, it is only fair to mention that a psychologist   
       inclined to Freudian analysis might argue that the so-called   
       "accident" had some overtones of OEdible aggression, or that some   
       stage of left-toenail obsession had not been fully met during my   
       infantile years, analyzing fully the oral or otherwise fluidly   
       directed libidinal forces governing the dark recesses of   
       subconsciousness dwelling in the deep temples of psychic   
       catacombs. But one should not waste a tiny moment lending any   
       credence to such overblown absurdities.   
      
       For a fraction of eternity, I felt the soft gentle curve of her   
       buttocks against my upper thigh. Hastily regretting my unintended   
       incursion on her personal space, I withdrew by a half a pace. She   
       turned, smiling, and leaned towards me, as if the tsunami of my   
       touch had unleashed an undertow in the opposite direction, and   
       she had fallen into the orbit of my gravity in the microscopic   
       nano-space of milliseconds, and she fell briefly brushing her   
       chest against my upper arm as she emitted a charming little sigh.   
      
       Marley's ghost gazed with Reggae pensivity under shiny beads,   
       from over her untouchable and unnecessary brassiere, amid the   
       sensory assault of mixed aromas of popcorn with the brassy scent   
       of fresh ink on larger-than-life cardboard standups, mixed with   
       the dusty smell of cheap washable nylon carpeting, which fused   
       into the timelessly accidental perfume that universally triggers   
       anticipation of clicking sprockets and flickering images flitting   
       across the great silver screen.   
      
       Amid that tumultuous fusillade, my subtle psychic sensibility   
       detected faintly another element, the sweetness of her budding   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)