Walking up to the concession stand Ingrid was confronted by the luminous menu and the immortal trophy case of stale, squeaky styrofoam popcorn. A snack she relished in her youth, but now felt like a relationship of convenience. The large tub rubbed in jagged vibrations across the counter to her boyfriend’s unbothered hands, his face titillated with excitement, wishing she had that kind of anticipatory joy. They both knew this popcorn wasn’t good. It wasn’t even worth the line. Yet they always gave in because concessions are what they are. Acceptable but less than.
This popcorn is an oily disappointment but at least it comes with free refills. My job pays $50k less than it should, but at least I have benefits. My partner doesn’t satisfy me, but at least I’m loved. So she absently chewed on, telling herself it’s fine under the circumstances. Taking handfuls, digging deeper and deeper, crust in her nails, shame up her wrists, during a movie she chose, but still wishing she were somewhere else. A bottomless tub of at least. Never satiated, but always fed.
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