Supercut

Amos Marie

I’m writing to see if you remember the second movie we watched together. I’ve been trying to ascribe a narrative arc to our relationship, and I need to know that second movie. I remember the first: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, because who could forget, but what was the next one? The first that I insisted on? 

At some point early on, I visited your family home and your brother teased us when we went up to your room. But we were just watching Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Keanu hadn’t come back in style just yet, but he was right around the corner. 

We moved in together and I remember making you watch Moonlight, which I knew you would love and you did. I remember going to see Hereditary, back when you hated horror movies, and seeing A Star Is Born, back before you stopped drinking. I remember seeing Dune in the indie theater with the movie night crew, and having the whole place to ourselves. I remember the first movie night, where you screened Romeo + Juliet and the boys asked if it was my idea. 

Do you remember when your car broke down on the way to Booksmart? Right in front of a restaurant patio, clanking and puffing as you turned back toward home, where the tow truck would meet us. I ended up seeing it twice that summer, with other people, during the same few months where I sat alone through Audition, The Farewell, and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, soaking up the gasps and snores of the crowds around me. 

But you could entertain, too. I felt so pleased when we saw Mother!, and the whole theater took delight in your frustrated sighs. Like the time you played Sinatra on the jukebox at our favorite dive, red faced and singing along for all the glassy-eyed regulars. Step Brothers played silently on the TV behind the bar. 

I remember leaving a wedding early to watch a Harry Potter marathon with your father. You came home later, after the fireworks and coke. The reception was at the bride’s family home, a sprawling estate in the Hudson Valley. You country kids sure throw a party. 

Maybe I’m getting carried away. You’ll forgive me, but I just unpacked the last box of my things. Imagine my surprise when I found those little cups, the ones that housed so much gin. The ones I never wanted to see again. I spent so many nights curled up on the couch, dreading the moment when you would go take one off the shelf.

I don’t want to talk about our last movie, or the award shows we suffered. I don’t want to think about when I went to see Beale Street alone, leaving you passed out and bloody on our bare mattress. 

I just want to know when I started choosing.