Matinee

For the first time in years, we decided to go to a movie, in an actual theater.

We used to go all the time. But over the last five years, with many theaters shuttered and us like shut-ins, it stopped being a thing.

On a random Saturday afternoon, we went to a matinee and like the old days, we arrived thirty minutes early to beat the crowd and claim our center seats.

“Hi Nancy. Hi Scott,” we heard five minutes before the movie started.

We looked up from our phones and saw a couple we hadn’t seen in years.

Eli and their son had been close friends in high school. We saw each other at soccer games and school events. Always friendly, never quite friends.

Their son died six weeks before Eli.

We’re in the same club. We joined at the same time, both against our will. But that didn’t make us closer,  it just means we understand each other.

“Oh hey, good to see you,” we both said, standing to give hugs.

“How are you guys doing?” I immediately regretted saying the thing I always hate hearing.

Like me, they dodged it. “Good to be out and keeping busy. Enjoy the movie.”

It was awkward. We told ourselves we’d catch up with them afterward. It felt like the right thing to do.

Two hours later, we walked toward the exit and ran into them again.

“I’m not sure what I just watched, but I think I liked it,” Nan said.

“The ending was tough,” she replied.

They walked ahead of us and we lost them. By the time we got outside, they were already halfway to their car.

We stood there, confused. Did we do something wrong?

Why didn’t they want to talk?

Later, Nan texted her:

Good to see you, albeit briefly.

The reply came quickly:

You too. The ending was tough and we just needed to go. Maybe we can connect for drinks another time.

More confusion. They didn’t stay after the movie, but wanted to get drinks?

A few days later, Nan was telling our friend about the encounter and showed her the text exchange.

“How did the movie end?” she asked.

“It ends with the main character sitting in a parked car with a guy who likes her. She’s crying. It’s emotional and intense.”

The friend paused. “Didn’t her son die in a car accident with his girlfriend?”

We froze. 

She told us — twice, that the ending of the movie was tough.

And we still missed it.

How could we, who constantly live with the unending absence of Eli, be so unaware of what that ending must have felt like for them?

I was angry, mostly at myself, because people do the same thing to me every day.

They say something without realizing, assume we’re fine, avoid asking, can’t see. I know what that feels like.

And yet, I was the one who couldn’t see. 

We were in the same club. I was supposed to understand better than anyone.

I thought grief made me a different person. 

That this new life without Eli had made me more compassionate, more aware, better at recognizing the pain I live with every day. 

And maybe it has.

But I'm also human, just like everyone else.

Trying to see clearly, and sometimes missing it completely.

Missing is the hardest part.

March 2026