by Kim Taylor
Each person places their ticket in the offering basket that I hold, wicker like the one passed at church basement services, and it's mostly the young ones who worry - can they still come back out, wander around, buy candy at the concession stand? Will I remember them and let them back in? When they return, they tell me hello, a little unsure, and I nod, because it's difficult to just sit and wait for a show to start. A small girl in tight braids comes out for a third time, and I look away to let her pass under my gaze, but she wants to be seen, and waves her arm at me. When she returns, I joke that a better plan, for me, would be to require the kids to give me part of their concession purchase before I let them back in, and I wink at her. But she's only ten, and she doesn't yet possess the wryness that comes with twelve or thirteen, so she puts a hand in her bag and offers me a chip.
Kim Taylor lives in Ohio and is trying to become a poet because of the great money-making potential.