The Rooftop Cinema – Part 2: The Last Reel

By midnight the crowd had drifted away down the stairwell, calling goodnights. The folding chairs stood in silent rows. Zoe locked the roof door and returned to the booth with a bottle of cold white wine.

"The last reel," she said. "A silent comedy. One hundred years old. I have shown it to no one."

"I'm honoured."

"You should be."

She switched off the light and the booth went dark, apart from the beam. The comedy spilled across the white wall, a flickering silver man tumbling off a roof. Eleni laughed softly. Zoe laughed too. The wine was cool in plastic cups. Their shoulders touched.

"Eleni," said Zoe, very quietly. "I would like to kiss you. If you'd like."

"I would," said Eleni. "I've wanted to since the second reel."

The kiss was warm, slow and silver. Zoe's gloved hands slid off and fell to the floor; her bare fingers cupped Eleni's face. The projector clattered on. The man on the wall tumbled and recovered. Neither of them watched.

They moved onto the old couch at the back of the booth, a thread-bare thing with a patchwork throw. The beam of the projector cut across the dark above them. Their kisses grew deeper and unhurried, hands finding buttons, rings, soft skin, with laughter and low talk in Greek and English. The summer night pressed warm against the window. The film ran out of reel and the machine clicked and whirred in the dark. They hardly noticed.

At dawn they sat on the roof, wrapped in the patchwork throw, watching the Acropolis turn gold. Zoe held a coffee in both hands.

"You'll write a review?" she asked.

"Of the film?"

"Of the cinema."

"I'll write four hundred words," said Eleni. "And one line only about the projectionist."

"What does it say?"

Eleni kissed her. "It says: the best thing on the roof was not on the screen."

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