Popcorn. The low hum of the machine behind her. The warm buttery scent. She wasn’t hungry. Childhood memories were feeding her.
The lighting should be softer, she thought, for memories. Fluorescents were too bright. Invasive. Surgical.
She lit a cigarette, hoping the smoke would screen her, purge her, from those memories. She didn’t want the rotten ones. She wanted life. Twirling in about-to-be-bought clothes. Choosing films to rent. Salted popcorn.
She took another drag on her cigarette. Its thin paper glowed red and disappeared.
A synonym of father, she thought, exhaling.
She missed him.