I love the popcorn, scrape of hands in greased cartons... Fucking genius. The kind of thing I can’t say—another problem my brothers don’t have, like high heels, fear of interrupting, or five kinds of lotion (face, hand, foot, body, cuticle)… This is so not a chick flick. Like the inability to tune out someone else’s baby cranking three rows back. It’s tempting to change seats. Just move up front. But not behind a tall guy. They don’t dread craned necks, nightsweats, salesmen who flirt… No way. Just trade in the patience, the need to smile—the need? Forget it. Yes, it’s easy to stand up— sink into an aisle seat, legs apart, take up all the air. You think I should apologize, you can think again.