We met in front of the theater for an early evening showing. They were wearing a jean jacket with faux-sheepskin lining. I made a weird joke about leading the lambs to slaughter and immediately regretted it; not only because the joke was terrible but also because they did not laugh, only tilted their head slightly and pursed their lips. The look reminded me of my father. Even still, this blind date was off to a better start than some.
They had picked the theater when I had proposed a movie; a run-down artsy place, the kind that shows strange films I have never heard of along with terrible older movies that have become popular again for some reason. They bought tickets, so I bought drinks and snacks: red wine in clear, plastic cups and sugared nasturtium petals. It was that type of place. The bag of edible flowers looked beautiful, and maybe would taste nice with a dry red? I was out of my depth, but there was no going back. What I wouldn’t give for a charcuterie board, I said. They didn’t laugh, but they did smile. Baby steps.
We took our seats toward the front and middle. In the dim lighting, the orange and red of the nasturtium petals looked like the beginning of a sunset. Our hands didn’t touch.
The movie was called The Ascent, and according to its poster was “entrancing,” “a meditation,” “a whispered tour-de-force.” I wasn’t sure what to think of any of those phrases.
It began with someone walking through the woods, a close shot from behind. There was no path and I couldn’t see the person’s face. I kept waiting for titles or some music or something, but none of that came, just the same person trudging forward. About five minutes in the incline increased and I laughed nervously. Was this really the whole movie? My date shot me a glare. I wished I had bought more wine.
I didn’t want to be rude and pull out my phone, or worse, guessing from the look I had just received, try to chat about or make light of the movie. I settled in to watch and resolved never to come to this theater again.
On screen, the person kept trudging. The inline was slightly steeper now, but not too difficult. I tried for a while to guess what kind of trees were slipping past, but I gave up. I had no idea. I was no arborist. I made a mental note to repeat that to my date after, but immediately thought better of it. They didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would appreciate it. Wasn’t that the whole point of dating? To figure out what they did appreciate? We had been set up by a friend, but the friend was strange; on the outer fringes of my circle. Maybe the setter-upper didn’t really know the set-uppees as well as we all thought?
On screen, the incline increased a bit more. Even from behind I could see the person was starting to breathe harder. I wondered what the point of this was. My date’s face was glued to the screen. If I was stuck, I figured I might as well try and figure it out. Or at least have what fun I could make of it.
The hiker vaguely resembled my date, not so much physically but something in their carriage, and I wondered what could possibly make my date want to climb this trail-less mountain?
I made up an elaborate backstory in my head involving a death in the family, a final request, ashes set adrift from the pinnacle on the gentlest of winds, a moment of relief, a resolution.
On screen, the incline had gotten even steeper. It was rockier now, unknown trees perhaps a bit more sparser. Or I was just hoping for change. I found myself rooting for my on-screen date to make it, to loose their family member’s ashes, to be rid of the personal burden. To complete the ascent.
Then, they slipped and fell.
When they rose and continued on, I felt myself relax slightly. I pushed back my shoulders and resituated.
On screen, my date was bleeding from a cut on the palm of their left hand. They wiped it on beige hiking shorts leaving a dark brown smudge. When they had fallen, they’d hit their knees, and even though I couldn’t see, I was sure blood was running down their shins from scrapes. Dirt and grit stuck in the abrasions and prevented it from flowing freely, so no more than a dribble leaked out, but I knew that sting, that simple pain. They continued on without stopping.
On screen, the inline kept on increasing. They were half-climbing, half-hiking now, occasionally leaping over gaps in the rocks. It was getting darker too, colder. Their breath plumed out in front of them. I couldn’t see their face but I guessed their teeth were gritted with determination. They climbed on in the fading light until darkness fell completely, and they didn’t stop, hand over hand now, up a sheer rock face.
It’s okay to turn back. It’s okay. You can’t see. Your family would want you to turn back. Just stop. Just wait.
The screen went completely dark. I could hear them climbing, breathing, reaching, grunting. It went on and on. Longer than the rest of the climbing put together. Then the sound of slippage, maybe a fingernail breaking under the pressure of clinging to a rock, a soft intake of breath, and silence, nothing. I didn’t move.
Later that night, alone in my third-floor apartment, I couldn’t sleep. I got up, went out on my boxy patio. It was cold but I didn’t wrap up. I wanted to feel it. I called them, and to my surprise, particularly after the way I left our date, they answered.
Hey.
Hey.
It was enough to hear them breathe.
Evan James Sheldon‘s work has appeared recently in the Cincinnati Review, Ghost Parachute, and Lammergeier. He is a Senior Editor for F(r)iction and the Editorial Director for Brink Literacy Project. Find Evan at @EvanJamesSheld1 and evanjamessheldon.com
