The Sunday matinee was my idea, but I spent the entire week trying to convince myself it had been a mistake.
The art house theater sat on a quiet street several blocks from the Marlowe. It had one screen, a red carpet, and a lobby that smelled like butter and old radiators. Theo arrived before me and waited beside the poster case.
"I brought you something," he said.
He held out a folded program from the Marlowe's last full season, dated fifteen years earlier. The pages were worn at the edges, but the cover had a painted moon and a row of tiny stars.
"I found it in the storage room," he said. "I thought you might like it."
I ran my thumb over the date. "My mother would have kept this."
"Would you like it?"
"Yes. Thank you."
We saw a movie about a woman who spent most of the story tr
