The first movie we ever saw in theaters together was Crazy, Stupid, Love. I always forget that, until I'm flipping through channels at night and the title catches my eye. We are terrible at going to the movies. You were restless that night, as always, squirming in your chair because of the armrests. You hated that we couldn't hold hands, that I couldn't rest my head in your lap, that we couldn't just be. Like us. I hated it too.
We'd been in love for awhile already, but it still felt so new. It's strange to think about that night now. How you held on to both our tickets until we got in the theater, when you placed them carefully in my palm so I could tuck them in my purse (because you know how much I love to save the stubs). How we sat in the back row, giddy and giggling about the other couples around us, joking that they couldn't possibly love the way we loved.
In reality, it had only been three months. I think now about how little we really knew each other--but we knew we were meant for each other. That was one thing we were always sure of. I felt it in the way you'd squeeze my hand, tender, soft, but hard enough to send a shock through my spine. In the way your eyes lit up from the movie screen when you looked over at me, because you could hardly pay attention. I sensed it in the tickle of your voice as it touched my ear. Warm and familiar. It was everywhere, in everything, a feeling that encompassed us so totally and completely that there seemed to be almost no before, but always an after.
We left the theater late at night, the stars high in the sky, our minds hazy from the feeling of being somewhere you're not.