One Armrest Was Enough Last Year
The armrest was the measurement. It always is.
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"Aisle seat."
You do not get an aisle seat at this cinema. She knew that. She said it anyway, in the queue, holding the bucket with both arms because one arm had stopped being enough somewhere around February.
"They're all the same size, babe."
"That's the problem with them."
He bought the large.
The armrest was the measurement. It always is.
In January she put it down between them out of habit. In April she put it down, and twenty minutes later lifted it again, and neither of them said anything about the lifting. By June there was no armrest position that was comfortable. Only positions that were possible.
"I'm not — " She stopped mid-word. Swallowed. Started again. "I'm not squashing you."
He told her she was not squashing him.
She was squashing him. He had thought about that in the dark more than he intended to admit. Thinking about it had never once made him move away. He gave her the inch. She took it without noticing there had been an inch to take.
Crunch.
"You've got some on you."
"Where."
"Everywhere, piggy."
She did not brush it off.
"Get me another one."
"It's half over."
"Then you'd better hurry."
He went. He always went. That was the part he had decided not to examine, and he had decided it deliberately.
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