The Projection Booth – Part 1: Back Row

The film was always second. The first thing was the light.

Diego loved the moment the projector clattered to life, the beam cutting through the warm Mexico City dusk, the screen flaring white and then settling into a picture. He was thirty-one, a projectionist, small and lean, in a black T-shirt and a faded cap, running a rooftop cinema on the flat roof of an old apartment block. Forty folding chairs, a bar made of crates, fairy lights strung from a water tank. Beyond the parapet, the city glittered to the horizon.

Every Thursday, the same man took the seat at the back.

He was thirty-four, tall, broad, with a grey-streaked beard and thoughtful eyes behind round glasses. He wore a linen jacket and carried a small bag of tamales. He ate them slowly, in the dark, without once looking at the screen.

On the fourth Thursday, Diego walked to the back of the roof.

"Excuse me," he said. "Do you like the film?"

"Very much."

"You've been looking at the wall."

"Which wall?"

"The projection booth."

The man hesitated. "Marcos," he said. "I'm sorry. It's rude, I think. I like to watch how it's done."

"Done?"

"The light." He nodded towards the little booth. "It's a kind of magic. I'm an architect. I think about light all day. And you control it so beautifully."

Diego's throat went dry. Nobody had ever said that to him. "Thank you."

"May I see?"

He led Marcos into the booth. It was tiny, warm, smelling of hot dust and old film. The projector whirred. The beam crossed the room in a blade of silver. Marcos stood very still, face lit pale, watching the particles dance.

"Can I ask you something?" said Diego.

"Yes."

"Do you want to stay for the second film?"

"Green?" said Marcos, a lamp, a sign.

"Green," said Diego, smiling. "Very green. Sit by me."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Reel.