The projectionist figures the past twenty-four hours just didn’t occur. There is no evidence left behind of the day and his partners conversation hasn’t paused but continued naturally.
“The cheese promised good times, so I spread it into my finger cut.”
His mood is the only tell, having devolved from chipper to morose. His actions of the day, imagined or otherwise, have been paid their due and it was a heavy price on his soul, under his shirt.
If he wore a watch he would be able to tell but the movie is the same and so are the patrons. The air is husky with cigarette smoke and fart stink, as usual, and his foot taps to his hearts beat just like last night.
“This bread is for you only. I baked it but cannot taste it.”
She spreads the cheese from her finger onto a slice and hands it to the projectionist on a plate she brought from home.
“How does it taste?”
Of her blood, but he smiles.
“Good. Have some more.”
Her hair looks lovely tonight, just as he remembers it.