A Brief Intermission: A Romantic 4th of July Story

by Rusty Fischer

A Brief Intermission:

  A Romantic 4th of July Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  A Brief Intermission

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2014 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © Syda Productions – Fotolia.com

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize in advance and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar!

  Happy reading… and Happy 4th of July!

  Enjoy!

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  A Brief Intermission:

  A Romantic 4th of July Story

  She thinks I don’t know her, but I do. She comes in every Thursday to see last week’s new release. Gets the same thing every time: small popcorn, no butter, red licorice – never black – small diet soda. Three napkins from the little dispenser next to my cash register – never four, never two – one straw, rip her ticket and she’s gone… until the next week.

  She loves scary movies, thrillers, foreign movies, even the ones with subtitles, anything but chick flicks and comedies. Always slips the same skinny, beige sweater over her purse because she knows she’ll get cold halfway through the movie.

  I’m always pleasant to her, nice, jovial, you name it, but she’s pretty stiff and unresponsive except for a polite, measured smile. Not in a mean way, just… not interested in the chit-chat.

  It used to hurt my feelings a little, but she’s even like that with Tucker, the resident Flickers Cinema hunk, so now I figure it’s just her way.

  Her name is Tara. I know not because she told me, but because she works at the Copy Cabana across from the mall and was running late one night a few weeks back and still had her nametag pinned to her sensible blue blouse.

  “Happy 4th of July,” I greet her as she sidles up to my counter. It’s the 7:45 show, her favorite, and she’s wearing soft white jeans and a red tank top with a blue scarf around her neck.

  She smiles that shy, measured smile and puts her purse on the counter, little tan sweater slung over the top. “You too,” she says, avoiding my eyes and studying the concessions board above my head as if she hasn’t seen it every Thursday night for the last five months.

  “What can I do for you tonight?” I ask her and, before she can answer, I hurry rush and say, “We’re running a few holiday specials tonight, if you’re interested. We’ve got white raspberry Freezy Slush mixed with cherry and a blue sour straw?”

  “Sounds a little sweet,” she hems, straightening her rectangular black glasses on her pert little nose.

  “Totally sweet,” I say, flashing my best theater manager grin. “But probably no sweeter than a bag of red licorice.”

  She starts a little, then frowns quietly. “What?” she asks, curling a lock of auburn hair behind a soft pink ear. She’s a few years older than me, in her early thirties maybe, hot in that sexy librarian way.

  “For example,” I blurt, not wanting to creep her out too much like I’ve been memorizing her concessions order every week. “Or a box of chocolate covered raisins or pretty much any of our candies.”

  She shakes her head and says, “I think I’ll just grab a small diet soda, thanks.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, somewhat disappointed. I mean, I kind of cooked up the whole red, white and blue thing special just for her. “Anything else tonight?”

  “A small popcorn and a bag of those too-sweet red licorice vines,” she says, and I blush, catching her smirk.

  It’s the first emotion I’ve seen her have in all this time. “Coming right up,” I tell her, dishing up the fresh batch of popcorn I popped just for her – it’s been a slow night – and a fresh soda, low on the ice, so she gets more bang for her buck.

  “$12.59,” I tell her, just like every week. She slides over fifteen dollars, just like usual, and I give her the change.

  “Whatcha watching tonight?” I ask as she gathers up her movie snacks.

  I already know, of course. Sasha in the ticket booth texted me the minute she bought her ticket. “Werewolf Bikers from Mars 6,” she says, a blush rising to her cheeks, avoiding my eyes. But then, she looks back at me and says, “Have you seen it?”

  “Of course,” I snort, giving her “an are you kidding me?” wave. “I’ve seen them all. You’ll love this one.”

  She blushes and says, though I already know, “I’ve already seen it.” Then she kind of stands there, waiting to hear my reaction.

  “Awesome,” I tell her, taking her ticket and ripping it in half. “Then you know it’s in Theater 4, down on your right.”

  “Thanks,” she says, still lingering as I hand her the ticket. She kind of looks around and says, “Kind of dead tonight, huh?”

  I chuckle above my crisp white shirt and maroon manager’s vest. “Yeah, 4th of July is always like that. Everyone’s at the beach watching fireworks, I guess.”

  She nods, biting her lower lip. My heart is pounding. I can’t take my eyes off of her. This is more than we’ve ever said to each other.

  Ever.

  Seriously, this is like the Flickers Cinema version of two young lovers running across a flowery field only to jump into each other’s arms.

  “Except you and me,” she finally says, staring down at her worn red sneakers.

  “Pretty much,” I chuckle. “There are a few knuckleheads in the new Space Crimes movie, and a few seniors in that Nursing Home 3 flick, but those get out any minute now and we’re closing early tonight, so…”

  Oh my God, I’m rambling. I’m so excited about her finally speaking to me I’ve become a rambling, babbling, blathering fool.

  “Oh,” she says, suddenly startled. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t want to keep you.”

  “You’re not,” I say, coming around from the concessions counter. “I’ve got to close anyway, so… enjoy your Martian werewolf movie in peace. Looks like you’re gonna have the whole theater to yourself.”

  She wrinkles her nose and smirks. “Good, just the way I like it.”

  I watch her walk down the hall, expertly, without hesitation, like she knows the way. And, with only four theaters, it’s kind of hard not to.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth, Romeo,” says Sasha, startling me, her black ticket taker vest already slung casually over her shoulder as she appears out of nowhere.

  I chuckle, blush and sign her time card. “You coming to the fireworks tonight?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I’ve got to close up shop here,” I tell her.

  “I’ll help you if it means you can see the fireworks on time,” she offers, sounding sincere.

  “No, no, you go and have fun. I’m sure I’ll be out of here by then.”

  “By when?” asks Tucker, creeping up behind Sasha and tugging two of her dreadlocks playfully.

  She turns, slapping him flirtatiously. They’ve been “secretly” dating for weeks but, since it’s against company policy, no one at Flickers Cinemas is supposed to know.

  Yeah, right.

  “For the fireworks tonight,” she says, snatching Tucker’s time card and offering it to me protectively. Tucker and I share a knowing look and I sign it quickly.

  “You gotta come, boss,” he says, towering over both Sasha and I in all his high schoo
l basketball glory. “I hear they’re gonna be nearly half an hour long this year!”

  I chuckle, counting on it. “I’ll do my best guys, but… you don’t want some old fogey around spoiling your fun.”

  “Forget that,” Tucker says, brushing past to grab his backpack out of the small manager’s office just inside the concession counter. I notice he brings out Sasha’s purse, too. “The whole Flickers crew will be there; day shift, weekend shift, the whole gang.”

  “All five of you?” I chuckle, walking them to the main lobby doors.

  “At least try,” Sasha pleads, but the heat’s gone out and now I know they just want to hit the road and get their swerve on.

  I hustle them out the lobby doors and stand just inside, waving them off impatiently like a babysitter eager to get the parents out of the driveway so her boyfriend can sneak in from the bushes. “I’ll try gang, but… no promises.”

  It’s wasted on them. They’re already gripping hands tightly and sashaying to Tucker’s beat-up pickup truck. I smile and lock the door behind them, sighing with relief.

  Now it’s just me and less than a dozen patrons and, as I sweep