Willy at the Movies 

The best date I’ve ever been on was not atop a mountain or next to a waterfall, it happened in a mall, in the food court and movie theater in nowhere Swansea, with C. Willy, the poor farmhand. 

That kook kicked my heels and put me in headlocks, I saw him go for the candy bar machine like he was sliding into home base, he taught me about the joy of eating food court free samples; three of which were sweet and sour chicken. He’s cool and confident, “See, now we don’t have to buy popcorn.” But I do anyway, so Willy insists on holding it, so when he laughs uproariously, or throws his head with the flights in Dunkirk, or jumps ten feet out of his chair frightened, the popcorn explodes from the bag. 

I have never met anyone who loves film as much as Willy; he used to look at IMDb a lot, and his good brain catalogued it all, so he’s an excellent reference. “I want to see every movie ever made,” he says. 

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