three titles, two of which no one will ever quite see, lit by bulbs that hum at a pitch slightly below the threshold of hearing. the box office has a single cashier and a sliver of window through which money is exchanged for a darker room.
somebody crosses the street toward the doors and pauses at the curb. they have already walked past once tonight, glancing at the titles without slowing. now they have come back.
field note: the bulb at the corner of the second N flickers, recovers, flickers, holds.