Back Row Confessions
"She goes to the Somali film festival alone. He sits next to her in the empty back row. By the second film, they're sharing popcorn. By the third, they're not watching at all."
The Somali Film Festival comes to London once a year.
I've gone alone every time. My friends think foreign films are boring. My family thinks I'm weird for preferring subtitles to action movies.
The back row is always empty.
Until today.
He sits two seats away.
Tall, Somali, with the look of someone who also came alone and isn't sure if that's sad or liberating. He catches my eye when he sits down.
"Back row?" I ask.
"Best view." He smiles. "And no one behind you to kick your seat."
"A man of culture."
"A man of bruised shins." He gestures at the empty seats. "Mind if I move closer? It feels weird being so far apart in an empty row."
I don't mind at all.
The first film is beautiful.
A story about a mother crossing the desert with her children. We both cry at the end.
"I didn't expect that," he admits.
"Neither did I." I wipe my eyes. "I come for the diaspora stories. But that was—"
"Real."
"Real." I look at him. "I'm Yasmin."
"Jamal." He offers his hand. "Stay for the next one?"
"I'm staying for all three."
"Then let me get popcorn. My treat."
By the second film, we're sharing everything.
Popcorn. Commentary. Whispered jokes about the subtitles that make us both stifle laughter.
"You speak Somali?" he asks.
"Fluently. You?"
"Enough to know the subtitles are wrong." He points at the screen. "He just said 'I'll never forget you.' They translated it as 'See you later.'"
"Tragic."
"See you later." He grins. "The most romantic thing you can say."
I laugh too loud.
Someone in front shushes us.
We don't care.
The third film starts.
It's a love story. Of course it's a love story.
On screen, two people dance around each other, too scared to admit what's obvious to everyone watching.
"This is frustrating," Jamal whispers.
"They'll get there."
"They're wasting time." He turns to me. "We've known each other three hours. I already know I want to see you again."
"That's very forward."
"I'm a forward person." He takes my hand. "Is that a problem?"
I should watch the film.
Instead, I'm watching him watch me. The light from the screen flickers across his face. The score swells around us.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"This is cinema." He leans closer. "Where better to fall for someone?"
He kisses me.
The back row stays empty.
Just us, tangled in our seats, kissing while the film plays out its romance and we create our own.
"Jamal—"
"I've been wanting to do this since you made that bruised shins joke."
"That was three hours ago—"
"Three long hours." He pulls back. Looks at me. "Come home with me."
"We've known each other three hours."
"And I want to know you for three more. And three more after that." He takes my hand. "Please."
I go.
Because something about him feels right. Because the film is ending and I don't want this to end.
His flat is small but warm. He puts on music—Somali songs I recognize from my childhood—and pours tea while I look at his books.
"You read Nuruddin Farah?"
"Every word." He hands me a cup. "What's your favorite?"
"Maps."
"Mine too." He sits next to me. "I have good taste."
"In books?"
"In women too." He sets down his tea. "At least, I hope so."
We don't finish the tea.
His mouth finds mine, and the music plays, and we move from the couch to his bedroom without breaking contact.
"Is this okay?"
"This is everything."
He undresses me slowly. Like he's unwrapping something precious. Like we have all the time in the world.
"You're beautiful—"
"You don't know me."
"I'm learning." He kisses my shoulder. "Let me learn."
He learns me all night.
With his hands, his mouth, his patient attention. Like I'm a film he wants to memorize, a story he wants to understand.
"Jamal—yes—"
"Tell me what you want—"
"You. Just you."
He gives me himself.
By morning, I know things about him too.
His laugh when he's nervous. His sigh when he's happy. The way he holds me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"Stay," he says. "For breakfast. For the day. For—"
"For what?"
"For whatever comes next." He pulls me closer. "I know it's fast. But something about you feels like the opposite of fast. Like I've been waiting for you without knowing it."
"That's very romantic."
"I learned from the film."
I stay for breakfast.
And the day after. And the week after that.
We go back to the cinema for the next Somali Film Festival. Same back row. Same seats.
"Remember when we met here?" he asks.
"One year ago." I squeeze his hand. "Best film I've ever seen."
"The one on screen?"
"The one we made." I kiss him. "I'd watch it forever."
He would too.
We would too.
Back row confessions, turned into something permanent.
That's the best kind of cinema.