Silver River, South Mississippi, USA
“It looks lovely, Honeybee!” Aunt Lizzie chirped, standing next to me with her hands clasped together.
I looked at the wall in front of me. The silhouette of a distant forest rested on top of a pale blue background. “I went with a winter landscape this year,” I explained, adding a final brushstroke of white to the spot where I cut the silhouette with a cute little bunny.
“You’re getting better and better,” my aunt praised, and I recognized the nostalgic tone in her voice.
That feeling was mutual.
Aunt Lizzie witnessed the years Papa spent painting my little room and was well aware that I was now doing the same tokeep his memory alive. Of course, there were no more glittery butterflies or shell-shaped beds. It was the room of a grown woman, about to turn thirty, and both the paintings and the furniture reflected that. However, the simple act of keeping the tradition of repainting the room every year seemed to bring the past and Papa back to life.
I observed Aunt Lizzie. After all that time, she was still in great shape. Her hair was now a bright tone of orange and she dressed like a hippie from the seventies. A stylish hippie, of course. But she was still the same as many years ago and she was certainly still breaking hearts. Maybe now more than ever before.
A mischievous smile crossed my face at that realization. “I think I heard a motorcycle early this morning…” I pointed out, immediately seeing her tucking a handful of tousled curls behind the ears. “I could even swear it came from our garden…”
“How strange! I didn’t hear anything…”
My eyes narrowed. “I bet. Especially when you were moaning, ‘Don’t stop, Oliver!’” My aunt gasped and stared at me in horror, her face red as a tomato. I grimaced. “I’ll be scarred for life.”
Her embarrassment quickly turned into indignation, and before I could dodge, blue paint splashed across my face.
“You didn't hear anything!” she squeaked and giggled while covering me in paint. “Not a thing!”
I laughed along, flapping my arms in an attempt to escape her treacherous attack. It was hard to resist teasing her when I knew shehatedto admit that she had fallen for my boss's charm.
Aunt Lizzie took great pride in her status as a heartbreaker.
“My aunt is such a cutie!“ I mocked as soon as I managed to get up, and ran for the door, leaving her breathless with the paintbrush still in hand, looking like a soldier ready for combat. “Oh, Oliver! I missed you so much, honey bear!” I teased, quoting parts of the conversations I overheard.
Aunt Lizzie chased me around the house wielding the paintbrush, and needless to say, we ended up with a particularly interesting decoration in our humble home. Half an hour later, we were trying to remove the paint from the floor and coming to terms with the new look of the walls.
Reluctantly, Aunt Lizzie once again had to admit her romantic side. She explained to me that she wanted to prepare a romantic dinner for herself and Oliver that evening and asked if there were any chances I could free up the house for a few hours.
Naturally, I agreed and called Olivia right away.
“Ooooh, we can go to the movies and then grab a bite to eat!” she said excitedly over the phone, as soon as I mentioned it.
“Pizza?”
“Hell yeah!”
And so it was.
Before five o'clock in the afternoon, I left the house and headed to the town movie theater, to meet Olivia. The building was small and decades old. As I arrived, I spotted her at the entrance. She was dressed casually, in loose jeans and a tight white T-shirt, wearing brown sneakers, and slinging a small beige bag over her shoulder. Olivia had always been stylish, andthe years didn't change that. But what I appreciated the most was that she could look like the most elegant and intimidating woman on the planet in her work clothes, and like the newit girlin town on a daily basis.
“I'd love to know the secret to having an ass like that,” I muttered like a drunk perv, pinching her butt.
She jumped, hugging me tight, practically knocking me over with our height difference, and laughed. “It's called weightlifting and genetics,” she reminded, and I rolled my eyes.
I loved running on the treadmill, but that was where my gym girl streak began and ended. Liv, however, often tried to convince me to lift weights with her.
“I prefer to blame my genetics,” I grumbled, dragging her into the building as we laughed and bantered back and forth.
The movie theatre was charming.
From the outside, you could see how old the building was from its dark brick facade and the chips and cracks in the granite framing its doors and windows. However, the interior had been remodeled and had a modern look, from the shiny floor to the glass partitions everywhere.
We approached the box office and looked through the glass at a woman with long dark braids and round cheeks. It was Theresa, one of my regular customers at the diner, and someone who had been working at that movie theater since before I was born.