We slouched down and peeled off our winter layers. Arthur kissed the tips of my frozen ears as he snuggled up close. Momentary claustrophobia engulfed me as I frantically loosened my scarf. Arthur, oblivious to the panic, unfolded my seat and ran a cursory hand across the pad. I struggled to catch my breath, closed my eyes tightly and willed my heart to calm.

Gone with the Wind was made for the big screen. When I first met Arthur, we swapped anecdotal tales about our likes and dislikes. I told him Rhett Butler epitomised my ideal partner; mean and moody with a sexual magnetism to melt the coldest heart. Arthur had laughed, pulled me close and assured me he was more than willing to take on the role.

Arthur just sort of happened, his persistence wore me down. He became an incidental companion. Maturity, people told me; I was growing up. Uninvited barbs casually linked the wild visceral passion of youth to immaturity. I’d finally made a wise and safe choice.

My companion had smuggled in a couple of small bottles of dry white wine which he decanted into plastic containers. The salted peanuts were difficult to eat quietly and we giggled as the crackling bags drew audible ‘tuts’ from our neighbours. At the interval the lights went up and Arthur disappeared into the foyer for a top-up.

One glass of wine is never enough; it now dulls the pain of boredom where it had once heightened the ecstasies of passion. In the past it anaesthetised the hurt and fear but now added sheen to a dull humdrum existence. Arthur returned with a Coca-Cola for himself. He always drives on a Saturday night and would never risk more than one glass.

It was only when the lights were dimmed once more and the dark smoky atmosphere re-enveloped us that I let my gaze wander round the crowded cinema. My eyes watered as they worked their way through dust particles dancing in the beam of moving images.

My mood, mellowed by alcohol, and my body had both momentarily stopped battling inner demons. I was at last breathing deeply and a rogue smile settled on my lips, hinting at toxic contentment. Scarlett skittishly fought her lovesick battles while Arthur gripped my hand.

A slow-moving film reel, one frame at a time, was set in motion. The lazy scan stuck as I rewound the last still and held it firm. Surrounded by dark maroon hues of cinema chenille, the image was vague. An indistinct shape of the head; unkempt curly strands of hair unwittingly flicked back every now and then by a stray finger; a certain slump of the shoulders churned up memories from the recesses of my mind.

Arthur kissed me as my body tensed. ‘Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ As Arthur pulled me close, he brushed the top of my head with eager lips.