I saw a film called Ghost Town Anthology the other day. Got in for free because the cinema was half-empty anyway. I sat down, had the whole row to myself and, as I stared into the titular ghost town, I watched my mind wander off to other places: the tube, my flat, my bed...
Onscreen, a married couple shuffles along a snowy forest, tennis rackets tied to their shoes.
“Isn’t snow walking wonderful?” says the wife to her husband. “Good for the lungs, good for the heart.”
“Yes,” he replies, and hesitates. “Maybe later we could watch a film together, or go out for dinner.”
Red in the face, the woman stops. Then she swivels. Then she pinches her husband in the arm. “Why are you never in the moment?” She scolds. “Right now, we’re snow walking!”
(Okaythencallmeoutdamn.)
I can’t remember the man’s name, but the woman’s name was Loulou. What a ridiculous name for such a smart woman. “Loulou, ma chérie,” coos her husband later on. She pinches him in the arm again. Good.
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