Speech Is Not A Requirement

The lines were long outside the cinemas, curving from the ticket counter, the popcorn counter.

N, efficient as always, had showed up early and bought tickets ahead. Center row seats, just near enough to be swallowed by the screen, just far enough to critique the film frame by frame.

Of the three other people in the group chat, two had said they weren't free, one had indicated a general amount of freedom if, in fact, the movie was pushing through. 

As N wanted to watch the movie, she had also indicated a general amount of freedom if, in fact, the movie was pushing through. 

And so, here she was, waiting outside the movie house with two tickets, wondering if the other would show up. Of the four, they were the least close, and had just met a couple of nights ago. What they seemed to have in common, at least at a distance, was a desire to watch animated movies by well-known producers about Scottish women archers with a whole lot of curly red hair.

And, N thought, as R came up to her outside the cinema, they also had this in common: enough thick skin to watch a movie with a near-stranger.

N handed R the ticket. "I like to watch the trailers," she said, instead of Can we go in the moviehouse now?

"Me too," R said, instead of Yes.

They entered the cinema.

Later, N would know that R had a love for Scottish accents and stories and histories. Later, R would know N thrilled to movie scores as much as to the movies themselves. Later, N would know that R could retell a story such that another could see it in the air as she spoke. Later, R would know N as someone who would keep her word even over a year of waiting.

But this was now, and neither knew anything. 

The movie was playing, and both girls were still. Neither laughed too loud at the jokes, or shifted too much at the drama. Neither knew how much they could trust the other with. It was not an uncomfortable watch, but it was more silent, maybe, than either were used to. 

The movie played on. Bears came into the picture. Later, a man noble and tall, freed from his prison, bowed to the red-haired Scottish female archer in thanks before going his way.

At this point, N could not contain her emotions at the gesture, at the rightness of the closing. Her hand twitched; her fingers touched R’s. Before she could apologize, R’s fingers closed over hers in a grip strong with the same thrill. N, startled, squeezed back, heady with the feeling of being known as few knew her. 

Not much happened after that. N and R, with different circles in university, hovered around the edges of one another’s consciousness. “It was fine,” they told the two other members of the group chat, without over-stating the scene. Sometimes they saw one another in the hallways. They did not wave. Sometimes they saw one another at the club. They did not greet one another. But it was a memory both quiet and invasive, and they were aware of it whenever they saw one another. I remember you. You knew me.

 N finally took the initiative. As an upperclassman, her classes were all over the place; usually at night, when their professors arrived from their work places. As an underclassman, R’s classes were in a predictable rhythm throughout the day. N learned her breaks, and would sometimes show up, laptop in hand, and work beside her. They didn’t say hello. But they would turn their laptops. “Look at this.” “Have you seen this?” “I like this reading.”

This escalated into conversation. “What’s your next class? Oh, I never had that one. Who’s your prof? What are you learning now?” “What major are you taking. Oh, I was thinking of applying to this course.” 

Which escalated into more conversation. “Oh, you like crocheting too? Here, look at what I’m making.” “What are you reading? Can you tell me about it?”

R loves the roots and the sounds of words. Sometimes they are the same thing. Sometimes she will rave about where a word comes from, and then delight in its sound. Sometimes she will laugh at both. 

N loves . . . it’s hard to tell. She’s a scholar, so she’s always studying. People, maybe. Friends come by in clusters, to fix her hair or exchange conversation. She talks with professors and upperclassmen. She is never not carrying a reading, but she doesn’t seem to be bored with the study. 

They are friends. Sort of. Almost. Maybe? Their circles begin to merge. Friends of N become acquainted with R, and vice versa. Their common friend (one of those who bailed on the movie) is tired of hanging out with one or the other and is relieved, in the practical sense, when she can find them both in the same place. Another club mate, a friend to their common friend, is glooped into the group. 

They start to have dinners after club meetings. All four of them, or with the club moderator, or with other club members. Most usually it’s the four of them. R shares what she learned in Latin class. S sketches them, or their surroundings, or something from her head. A eats first, and gives a running commentary on her day in general and the world specifically. N usually leaves early, but she learns to stay later and later, not willing to abandon their company. 

Good company is rare. 

It turns into movie days or nights. (Sometimes, if only one has a class, she skips it for the movie.) It turns into trips to another nearby city, since all four love history, all four can stand on the bones of an old Spanish wall and feel the strength of it from the feet to the ground. All four can split churros and hot chocolate and the taxi ride home without drama or awkwardness.

Speech is not a requirement; wordless understanding is.