i was a part-time film projectionist slash ticket-taker slash barista at the two screen indie theater in my mid-sized backwater hometown i worked the evening shows, solo, running to the back to catch the reel as a film’s final moments unspooled running back to the front to serve cappuccinos in chipped Fiestaware (knockoff) mugs delivered to your seat watching trailers from the booth with the ghost called Isabella garlands embossed on film— Sundance, Cannes, TIFF drops of nectar on parched small town tongues— the promise of elsewhere loading film onto a projector a task both dainty and technical— clean hands, precision, the foresight to plan ahead, avoiding the need to strap and lift a film, a heavy two hours, in your arms Isabella, the ghost, was in love with me. the brick building was once a brothel and she was in charge maybe i reminded her of her girls and she was a movie buff, casting me, surely, in all her favorite roles gently handling film in the booth and cleaning the espresso machine at night one day, the theater went digital— scheduled, automated, so different from the timing, the planning, the fire hazard!, the rickety train sound of film on film i noticed the quiet most of all my role reduced to moving on silent feet to draw the curtains before the feature, to prop the doors as the credits rolled one Valentines Day, a tourist told me he couldn’t believe someone my age had ever been a projectionist and said there’s something romantic about knowing there’s someone back there preparing the magic… winding it up for everyone i tapped what he said into my Notes, a temporary sentimentality i thought about my romance with Isabella in the steam heat of the dishwasher, laying out rows of silver bowls to air dry in the audience that Oscar season, i saw the trailer for Portrait of a Lady on Fire i nearly swallowed my own tongue i didn’t breathe for two minutes, sixteen seconds women looking at women LIKE WOMEN shot, framed, lit, written by women? the smell of fresh bread wafting out across the path of a starving orphan by the time it reached our market, theaters were closed due to pandemic i planned a date to stream it with a girlfriend, synched, texting i dumped a quote (surely more pure in French) into my Notes: In solitude I felt the liberty you spoke of, but I also felt your absence. The longing! The agony! The windswept beach! The green dress! i think about it still, all the time i think of the scene when they first go walking i think about the female gaze i think about how she takes off running right towards the cliff, how not-Isabella follows not-me (or perhaps the other way around) and we turn around at the last minute out of breath, heaving, almost smiling beneath a half transparent mask, right into the lens i can almost hear the film rushing through the projector through my laptop all the way from here.