Squirrel and Rabbit Go to the Movies

By Peter Bowden


In the golden spill of a late spring afternoon, Rabbit bounded down the cracked sidewalk, coat flapping like a flag of purpose, chattering about the indie romance at the Elm Street Cinema—the one with subtitles and soul. Squirrel, wiry and skeptical, scampered beside him with paws crossed and tail flicking like a metronome of disapproval. “Soul is overrated,” she said. “We need explosions. Car chases. A hero with a tragic backstory and a flamethrower.” They stopped in front of the ticket booth, the marquee humming above them like a sleeping carnival, each animal staring at the other with the full measure of their stubborn affection.

Inside, under the velvet hush of movie house air and carpet that smelled faintly of rain and old candy, they met their second skirmish: popcorn. “Butter is the language of cinema,” Rabbit declared, already reaching for the dispenser like a poet drawing breath. Squirrel shuddered. “It’s an oil slick in a paper bag. You’ll ruin the texture.” They negotiated in quiet, heated whispers, each pointing to the memories they were sure mattered most—of first films, summer matinees, the way butter glistened like nostalgia, or how clean popcorn snapped between teeth like truth.

In the end, they compromised with lightly salted popcorn, a tiny side of butter for dipping, and—after a brief debate over shelled or unshelled—they ordered a paper cup of warm roasted peanuts. The film they picked was neither romance nor action, but an odd little documentary about birds who dance in the dark. They sat in the back row, not speaking but not needing to. Their silhouettes leaned just close enough that, in the flicker of light and shadow, it looked like they were holding paws.

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