One step through the double doors and I could already feel the air wrapping eagerly around me like a thick, itchy blanket; it‘s fibers were unpleasantly moist and warm. A lingering stench of artificial butter and body odor further degraded the experience. It felt like the inside of a porta-potty in July : hot, sticky, and reeking of bodily waste. The abrupt transition from the cool lobby into the stuffy theater hit me hard and I furrowed my brow in curiosity. It just didn’t make sense to me. It was the middle of summer, the auditorium was packed, yet the theater management had no sense to turn down the a/c. I couldn’t see the logic in it. I was miserable, on the verge of suffocating, but I tried my best not to show it.

I followed my date obediently up the lighted stairs considering, for a moment, the reason why I was with him. After standing up my friend on their blind date, he didn‘t deserve a chance with me. I should have said no, but he was European. European. And that reason alone simply made everything alright.

I focused on the brown of his shirt, wondering what was in store later on after the movie. I imagined that shirt on the floor somewhere in my apartment, with the lights off, and the blinds closed. The thought, however, quickly passed after I mistakenly inhaled too much of the warm stench. I could almost taste it: that unappetizing odor of old popcorn and feet. I quickly stopped breathing through my nose, afraid I might involuntarily provide entertainment for an audience of easily two hundred. I swallowed, and continued the ascent .

"What’s wrong?" my date asked me.

I leaned back against my seat, then ran a hand roughly through one side of my hair. I could feel the strands curling up, and frizzing from the horrid conditions of the room. I secretly cursed the tube of anti-humidity cream that claimed it would keep my hair nice and smooth even in the presence of moisture. I wouldn’t be buying that product again.

I smiled at him. "It’s really hot," I said, pulling out an iPhone brochure from my purse to fan myself with. We’d been seated for a good ten minutes, and I expected it to get cooler, but it never did.

He shifted uneasily in his chair. "Yeah, it’s pretty warm in here."

I rested my head on a propped elbow and scanned the sea of people. I could almost feel the room getting hotter as my eyes traveled its length; row after row of countless heads poked above rectangular boxes. All of those bodies were turning the room into an inferno, yet it seemed as if my date and I were the only ones to notice. All of them looked comfortable and cool as if the unusual heat didn’t affect them, and as if eighty degrees was a perfectly acceptable temperature for a movie theater. Some, I couldn’t believe, were even in sweaters and hoodies. I fanned the cardstock furiously, feeling the nape of my neck go warm. I hated the heat, and I needed to get out.

I trailed my eyes down the stairs and over to the door way, seriously considering stepping out to breathe in the cooler, fresher lobby air.

"I don‘t like this," I, then, heard him say.

Regretfully, I tore my attention away from the exit and focused on my date. I watched him thoughtfully as he carelessly fumbled with his broken arm rest, lifting it up and down rhythmically. It was then that I focused, again, on the brown of his shirt. The lights dimmed, the crowd silenced, and I wondered what would be in store for us after the movie.