Romantic, chick flick, fluff. But it’s James Cameron,
I said, you told me once on an early date your
first time watching The Terminator was the best
two hours you’d ever spent. Terminator’s
A bulletproof machine you reply, spitting popcorn
kernels from your teeth. I agree, remembering
the muscle and leather, blood spilling in the face
of robotic strength. But what about Kyle Reese?
How he blasted through time, unclothed, trained to
fight, to sustain physical pain but was raw, open,
human. You raise an eyebrow, turn away but I’m
Not done. He desired one person for his entire life:
through war; through terror. Consumed by her
image; a photograph in his palm, face mourning a
loss he couldn’t yet comprehend. He fought for
her, fell so hard it made me believe; taught me what
Love could be. You nod, flick through choices on
the screen but I’m still talking about Sarah Connor,
how she saved the world, became a mother and a
warrior but it’s only Schwarzenegger you remember
And, I add, isn’t Titanic action too? The most
catastrophic of disasters? But heroism wears a
dress this time. Escapes that forced fiancé, slick in
his suit with his slippery demands on her body and
her future. Falls into a forbidden tryst, fights for a
life nobody gave her permission to ask for -
I stop,
Can hear myself no longer. Words drowning in the
clatter of explosions set off by a billionaire who
performs his own stunts, you say and you tell me
that it’s a number in a series but all I feel is de ja vu in
the quick fire blur. He jumps, shoots, hinting at emotion
in the shifting of his jaw, the tightening of his fists.
You cheer, orange sparks from the scene reflected in
your eyes. You pass the snacks, clasp my knee but
I shift away. Head lost in reverie to leading ladies,
solitary when the credits rolled but okay, I think,
to be alone. There are still stories waiting to be told.
