The woman sank back into her chair and not for the first time in his life, Peter felt the presence of another person tolerating him.

“I’m Peter.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“Sorry. I’ve already said that.”

Peter cleared his throat, hoping the woman would remember her manners enough to share her name with him. But she merely glanced at her chest to point out the sheer stupidity of introducing herself when a name badge was there for all to see, and hoisted herself up out of the chair.

Peter smiled. “Hello, Marge.”

“Come,” said the woman, leading Peter back out through the lobby. “I’ll show you the ticket booth.”

“Do I get to wear a special uniform?”

“If a T-shirt with a dickie bow printed on it is special.”

“And carry a torch?”

“And serve ice creams from a tray around your neck during intervals?”

“Really?”

Marge raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” said Peter. “You’re joking.”

A thin red curtain masked the ticket booth which was barely bigger than an upright canoe and fronted by glass that bowed out on to the sidewalk beneath the marquee above. Marge stood to one side, holding the curtain back so Peter could squeeze in next to her and take a seat on the high chair. The curtain fell back into place behind her. It smelled of cigarettes. It must’ve been years since someone had last smoked in here, but the stale scent of nicotine had worked its way into the skin of the curtains as strongly as an old smoker’s fingers. In fact, once you were sealed in, the booth was so airless and unchanged, with its clump of old gum stuck to the metal base of the chair and bits of food stuck in the cash register, it was hard to imagine that any time had passed at all.

Peter swivelled the chair around from the register, pushing his fingers through a small slot in the glass to pretend he was exchanging money for tickets. He swivelled back again repeating the action a few more times when Marge cleared her throat.

“There are only so many times people can watch the same movie,” said Marge. “So, don’t expect it to be busy.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “OK. So, what do I do?”

“You sit here looking open.”

“Do I take a note of how many people come in?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

“I’ll do that, then.”

Marge gave a cursory nod. “You do know this is all there is to it?”

“What, the job?”

“Sure.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Trick is to keep yourself busy.”

“Why is that a trick?”

“You’ll need to know how to pass the time.”

“It’ll probably be more exciting when the theatre’s open.”

Marge shrugged. “Sure.”