An older couple sat in front of us. The man was friendly. He chatted up his neighbors in good spirits; the woman scowled. Close cropped, moussed auburn hair, heavily rouged, fitted black leather jacket, thin, scarf wrapped artfully around her neck -- probably to hide her wrinkled, puckered flesh... and mean. When they sat, they were lucky enough not to have anyone in front of them. Two empty, perfect seats, which is just and fair because this woman deserved it. Though never speaking loud, she'd lean in close to her husband's ear and whisper. He'd shake his head, sigh, and then switch seats. Or listen patiently. Or look away. The woman rubbed his back with her crooked left hand in wide elliptical arcs, I suppose to soothe him.
It was a sold-out show. The only two empty seats in the whole wide theatre were in front of this lucky, lucky woman. Only... we were in limited view seating facing the far right of the stage. And to the right of these empty seats, sat two people. The show began, the seats were unclaimed, the two people slid into the empty seats.
The old woman bristled. She coughed. She jabbed her husband in the gut and threw up her hands in disgust.
At intermission she made small noises. Of the two people who'd taken the empty seats, the man turned around and said, "Are you having difficulty seeing? I could move one to the right?" And the skinny, old woman ignored him. The man repeated himself and she looked through him. When directly confronted she murmured something about her line of sight being completely blocked by this man's bald head. The old woman's husband assumed the cloak of "I'm not with her" body language. And while the woman continued her whimpering noises, we all laughed at her. I imagined the satisfaction I'd have with just a slight swift flick against the back of her head. And just so the reader's sympathy can't possibly lie with this woman, know that she could see fine. The seats are well-graded and spaced and she wasn't short or hunched over or otherwise visually challenged. Perhaps for vanity's sake she'd left her glasses at home, but that's not our fault. I could also mention spitefully that the old woman was white and the man in front of her was black and the tension seemed especially magnified by the subject matter of the play we were watching. But that'd just be petty and probably libelous, so I'll mention it only in passing.
After the play, BF and I shuffled down to the parking garage. There were more elderly people in front of us and as they struggled with their canes to enter Level 5 North, the line suddenly stopped. We could just see a pair of black boots supine against the pavement. Exclamations of, "Oh dear" and "Are you alright?" followed.
A woman fell. Most likely tripped on a step. It wasn't clear what she'd injured or how long she'd been there. Two men tried to help her up, which some of us thought may have been a bad idea, and BF ran off to find a valet or an usher or an authority figure with a walkie-talkie. It's near impossible to go up in the parking structure. They reverse the escalators and hide the stair entrances, but BF persevered and brought back help. A by-stander called 911. And the poor woman sat there, dazed, cradling her arm, and blinking wide against the light.
BF and I drove home without further incident.
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