In the cool dark room, we watch
shadows glide over glistening screens,
movements taut with charm,
streamlined fury engines.

I wonder about the stakes.
I wonder if I have what it would require
to whisper I love you on a moving train.

50% of marriages end in divorce.
I scan the room for proof of these statistics.
The couples beside me on either side keep
their eyes forward, silent. Only one of them
will survive. By the end of the film,
I will have figured out which one:
the one with the woman with salmon-colored boots
and the man who slurps his drink too loudly.
He’ll say she’s too busy. She’ll say he’s right.
In fact, this may be the last two hours they spend together
this way—in silence, in darkness.
I may be the only one who has what it requires
to turn to the woman and offer her a…