Our make-out session had just moved from the popcorn littered aisle to a row in the back of the theater when we were summoned by our boss. Her voice rang out over our walkie talkies, and since we both had them attached to our hips, they screeched until we pulled apart.
“Theater three is breaking,” she said in the high-pitched voice every worker mimicked behind her back. “Where the hell is Abatha?”
Before I could unclip my walkie, Derek brought his to his lips. “I told her to stock the kitchen for me. I’m on my way over to three now.”
After a pregnant pause, she sighed (which was purposely done over the radio for everyone to hear) and said, “Copy.”
“Listen,” Derek said, lifting up my broom. “I know you hate ushering this late. I’ll take care of the last few theaters. Just stock the kitchen for me, will you?” He handed me the list he’d already written out and bounced down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he picked up the pan, blew me a kiss, and was gone.
The walk to the elevator was a short one, but it allowed me to pass the front desk, where I saw my best friend, Tyler, with a customer. I could hear her spelling out her email address and see him typing it into the computer in front of him. After she exchanged the little slip of paper she had signed for a keychain sized plastic card, I walked on over.
