From the back of the theater we had watched the protagonist effectively blow up and rewrite his entire life, and the soundtrack sounded final, and the people in front of us were starting to fidget and shake the ice at the bottoms of their cups about fifteen minutes earlier so I had a feeling we were nearing an end. I didn’t check how long the movie ran before coming. It was the sort of blasé invitation that suggested I shouldn’t ask many questions, except I didn’t quite follow the rules and I counted on my hands that I asked four questions during the movie. Four too many. He doesn’t like when I’m curious. I’m curious because I like to hear him talk. I let him talk too much because I hope one day he’ll say something real. But it was four too many questions. I had a feeling we were nearing an end. And I almost always cry at the end. It feels like getting invested in a stranger just to get ripped out of their life. I told him this once, maybe the fourth time we came here, and he said that I was very dramatic. The people in the movie started looking at each other like it was time for the curtains. My stomach heated up, jealous of the sadness in their eyes. I glanced at the straight lines in his face. He didn’t speak but I could read them. For months I’ve wondered when it will be The Night. The credits. He looked at me and blinked. He didn’t ask what I thought when the overhead lights flipped on. He said he was uninspired and sounded angry about it. I heard this time that I will never change that. I wondered when he would ever look at me with sadness about that. We were to go home and tuck in with niceties, which is not the same as niceness.