Slow Dissolve

1 I was in the dark. Not a new state for me, either literally or figuratively. This time it was literal, preceded by a clap of thunder that could have been God's Foley artist answering George Lucas. The boom launched me off my stool and precipitated my knee into a close encounter with the makeup bench. I cursed the darkness, pressed one hand to my throbbing knee, and reached for the flashlight with the other one. I felt it bump my fingertips. Then I heard it hit the floor with a crack, and roll. "Oh, hell!" I shouted, the sound bouncing off the walls of the projection booth and hurting my own ears. In every direction, I knew, lay obstacles waiting in the darkness to trip me, stab me, bash my shins, and fall on top of me. In one direction only lay the door, but I would have to feel my way to it. I took a deep breath. Aloud, I muttered, "Think happy thoughts, Gilda. This is no time to be cranky. You're an independent theater owner about to be visited by the box office darlings of the summer season, who will leave their dinoprints all over your ticket sales reports. Better to have the power outage tonight and get it over with than to send everybody home from The Lost World on Thursday night. As your cousin Faye would say, chill." My knee still smarted as I limped in the general direction of the door. In the dark, I was more acutely aware of the smells of the old theater--a faint mustiness, the scents of the cleaners and oils used to keep the antique projector and the newer platter system running, the rich, buttery odor of more than half a century of popcorn. A deep silence inside the theater answered the rumbling storm outside. As my eyes adjusted to the disorienting blackness, I realized that a few photons had made their way into the booth from the exit signs at the front of the theater. I took the stairs slowly, surprised by the darkness of the lobby below. The late afternoon thunderstorm had crept up on me while I was working in the booth, but it must be some storm, I thought. A sudden flash of lightning lit up the lobby, and I cried out. Two feet away from where I had frozen on the bottom stair, a man was standing. A clap of thunder rattled the glass doors on the front of the theater. Training, my Aunt Lillian always says, counts for everything in situations like these. "May I help you?" I croaked. Out of the darkness came a sigh, barely audible under the sounds of wind and rain outside. "I used to be in pictures," a voice said softly. Poised for flight, I considered my options. "Yeah?" I said. "Long time ago," the voice said. "Before the war." At that moment, Central Ohio Power seized the upper hand, and the lights flickered on. The ice machine resumed its contented purr. The man before me looked to be in his seventies. He was slightly stoop-shouldered and had white wispy hair retreating along both temples. He wore dark green polyester pants and an old brown military jacket, even though the day was warm. "I'm Leo," he said, turning to look at me. Then he smiled. He had a jawline shaped like a boomerang, and his smile widened his mouth into a V. A row of front teeth protruded like an awning over his lower lip. If ever a grin could be called wolfish, this was it. "Gilda Liberty," I said, putting out my hand. He looked at it, then put out his own. "I own the Paradise." He nodded, and continued to grin at me. "Did you want to, uh, look around?" I asked hesitantly. I had work to finish upstairs before the early show. "I'm waiting for my girl," he said. "Your girl?" I echoed. I didn't think any of the summer help could be in this guy's range, romanBorton, Della is the author of 'Slow Dissolve' with ISBN 9780449007051 and ISBN 0449007057.