Alastor stared up at the thin screen, ankle balanced on his knee and a boutique of winter flowers loose in his hand. The theater was empty, save for him and the man at the piano who played as if he was at prayer, head bowed and eyes half-shut. It was a late showing, the film no longer fresh enough to be on the marquette, set out like spoiled produce to be picked at by those of lesser means.
He didn’t mind the theater. Not really. There was a certain frail charm to it, like a glass bell jar used on people instead of butterflies, preserving that which wasn’t meant to be preserved. Alastor was glad of it now, though. He watched the silent picture ramble on before him, as a slender man with a ridiculous moustache and top hat stumbled his way into comical mishaps meant to delight indiscriminate crowds like the vaudeville shows of his childhood.
And suddenly there she was, trapped forever in celluloid like a beetle in amber. Leeched of her righteous color and bawdy accent, but her just the same. Alastor watched, unable to help the smile that crept onto his face, as Mimzy bustled into the scene in a fox stole and the helpless tramp walked right into her. She gasped, eyes wide as billiard balls, mouth a perfect “o” of affront, before she began to smack him with her handbag.
A dialogue card popped up on screen. “You cad!” it said in curvy handwriting, and Alastor could almost hear it in her voice, the spark of her accent and the dive in pitch of her tone when she really got angry.
Just as quickly as she had arrived on the screen she was gone again, disappearing into a crowd of people and leaving the comedian looking slightly battered and adrift.
“That’s my girl,” Alastor said fondly, sadly, wishing he could replay it again and again just to see her. He’d give anything to reach through the screen and pull her back home, back to New Orleans, where she belonged. Where he had kept her safe from mean landlords and cruel boyfriends, instead of letting her go to chase her dreams of stardom in the silent movie factories of New Jersey.
Where she had run straight into another man with ill intentions, a drinking problem, and a gun.
Alastor stood slowly and dropped the flowers on his seat. He’d see her again, he knew it deep down in his bones, but he ached without her now. Regret was not an emotion he was used to, though grief was a ready friend he had shaken hands with many times before. He hated to welcome it back into his life once more.
“Goodbye Mimz,” he said, running a hand over a flower petal before putting his hat back on and walking out of the theater, the slow piano tune following close at his heels like a dirge.
