On the giant screen in front of us, a man in a red and blue suit was swinging between buildings, and three hundred people were gasping and cheering.
Behind me, a nine-year-old boy was laughing so hard he was choking.
And beside me, my husband Owen was staring at the side of my head.
He reached over and picked a piece of popcorn out of my curls. He held it up between two fingers in the flickering light of the screen. It was shiny with butter.
He looked at it. Then he looked at my face.
I don’t know what he saw there. I’ve asked him since. He says he doesn’t remember. He says he just remembers the popcorn, and my face, and something inside him that had been quiet for thirty-eight years suddenly standing up.
He put the popcorn down on the armrest very carefully, like it was evidence.
