Between What's Flesh and What's Fantasy

The theatre is pitch-black and so shadowed by its own gray-shimmering obscurity as they creep in through the slither between the linoleum doors that if not for the tug of Rita’s fingers against the shy warmth of her palm she would lose track of where they are altogether. They slip between the rows of red, rough-surfaced velvet as scattered paper-bags and lost trinkets graze against her ankles, her naked toes.