The last show finished, and the final customer filed out of the theatre into the damp night, leaving just echoes of the pleasure the evening's film had provided. Gary folded up the sidewalk sign and brought it inside to the lobby, saluted the last of the filmgoers straggling out, then locked the front doors before flipping the switch that shut out the marquee lights.

Inside, the manager, Wendel Johnson, a self-imagined replica of his idol, Jack Nicholson, captured solely by the fact that he wore sunglasses indoors, was totalling the receipts from the confection counter, and slipping the money into a canvas bag that he would place in the office safe upstairs.

Peter Rabb, his assistant manager, was doing a quick scan of the auditorium for lost or forgotten articles and giving a final check to the fire escape doors. Behind the screen he tapped the faulty freezer light, and counted the remaining sacks of popcorn, ice cream bars, and the jugs of syrup for the drink dispenser. Then he scouted around for any items that some of the less mature customers chose to peg at the screen during the running of the film.

Wendel met him as he came up the aisle and sucked his teeth when he saw the bagful of candy wrappers and paper cups.

"Is there no decorum left in society? No respect for the comfort or consideration of others?" It was a complaint he issued after every performance.

"Only way to break a bad habit is to replace it with another one?" Peter responded with a Nicholson quote, and constrained amusement. Wendel tilted his head and gave Rabb a strange look. That Wendel could even see through his Serengeti's in a dark theatre, amazed Peter.

"I seem to have broken the metal clamp on the money bag," Wendel announced, changing the subject. "Would you check the storage cupboard in the basement and see if we have a spare. I'm sure we must . . . somewhere down there."

Peter nodded and deposited his garbage in the lobby bin then headed for the door to the basement. The old theatre was a product of the industry it embraced - all flash and glitter on the outside, while behind the facade, below ground it was dirty, dark and in this case, a haven for rats. He hated going down there.

Other than providing a foundation for the ageing structure the only need for the basement was to house the furnace and the meters for the water and hydro - and the storage cupboard. He stamped loudly down the stairs as he switched on the dim light, hoping to shoo away any of the hairy residents, and made his way across to the cupboard.

The door was of panelled wood, peeling and splitting from the dampness, and it swung open on a tilt because of the bent hinge from when, years ago, Wendel wrenched it open in a fit of rage. He hadn't been back down since and nobody knew what had caused his anger.

Peter jerked open the door and shone his light inside on the shelves looking for the spare bag. He pulled a medium-sized carton out and dropped it to the floor at his feet. The lid was grimy with dust, and he raised the flaps gingerly for a peek inside.

There was the spare bag, rigid in its shape after being folded for who knew how long. The canvas was like wood. He took it out and tried to open it up but it adamantly refused to surrender. It was then he spied another bag underneath; this one was neatly folded and bound with a leather thong.

He grunted at the quantity of grey dust that marked the shape of the money bag; it must have lain there for years. Peter lifted out the bundle that was about twelve inches wide and eighteen inches long and set it on the floor. Squatting down as comfortably as possible, he carefully undid the thong and peeled back the heavy cloth cover, exposing a shoebox styled container with no markings. Opening the lid, the contents caused him to gasp.

Quickly covering and fastening the box, he picked it and the spare moneybag up and left the basement. Wendel was dismayed at the news of the spare bag, and was still complaining loudly when everyone bade him goodnight and left quickly, in case he had another request to make.

******

Peter unlocked the door and let himself into the apartment just as the answering machine finished announcing the time and date. While he undid his boots and put them on the drain tray, he was greeted with the lingering scent of air freshener. He closed the door and set his bundle on the floor, tossed his jacket on the arm of the sofa, calling hello as he headed through the living/dining room into the kitchen.

Usually, Peter was the lonely, single occupant of his apartment on the second floor of a four-storey building, overlooking a busy commercial strip of stylish boutiques. The single bedroom unit was larger than the new condo units seen going up like mushrooms all over the city, it boasted a large living room, and an eat-in kitchen as well as a big bathroom.

He would have liked a shower but the large, four-legged tub gave him a feeling of decadent celebrity when he lolled in its spacious interior, enjoying his rare moments of solitude. Today, his once solitary haven was shared with another; one who not only usurped his tub, but just about everything else in his life at random intervals.

"Hi." Mary turned and wiped a smudge of chocolate chip from the corner of her mouth, smiling.

"Why didn't you get the phone?" He relaxed as the effect of her smile washed over him; it never failed.

She turned back to the counter and fiddled with the dishcloth, wiping up cookie crumbs. "My mouth was full."

"Who was it?" He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, twisting the top off with a crack and gulping down a large mouthful. She folded the cloth and, without looking at him, answered.

Peter stopped mid-swallow and groaned, letting his shoulders sag. "Mary . . ." Immediately the previous effect dissipated, replaced with a tension ache in his shoulders.

"It's not my fault, Rabb. You knew this could happen at any time."

She rinsed the cloth and hung it over the sink divider.

He did know. She was right. It didn't make it any better.

"When?"

"This Friday at The Green Plum. It'll be really nice, Rabb. Honest. It's a special night."

"I know it will be nice. They're always special. It's just that I have nothing in common with any of that crowd, and I stand around looking like a dork, and drinking too much."

"That's not true. You don't drink too much."

He gave her a dirty look and stepped back as she launched herself at him in a giant hug, muttering salving phrases that always managed to erode any defence.

"How come you're here tonight?" He asked stepping out of her clutches and concentrating on his drink.

She looked down and played little girl with her fingers on the button of her shirt.

"Never mind. It's because of this do that you want me to go to isn't it?"

She nodded, cracking a smile. "That call was a confirmation of the time."

When they first met, at his place of work, she had flustered him no end with her teasing and flirting until he threatened to remove her from the theatre. The confrontation had devolved into a comedy of traded insults that ultimately led to mutual apologies, and a late date at a local coffee shop, where she continued to mollify him while quickly jerking him head over heels in love.

At first she had laughed, surprised and not a little concerned at what she had created, but after several agreeable dates she admitted to herself, although not to him, that he was a pretty good catch. Three years after an on and off relationship, she moved in - from time to time - and Peter was doomed.

The six years since they had met, and just over three since she became a semi-permanent resident in his apartment, he had dutifully attended her business soirées, each one more gruelling than the last.

"Can't you just come here once without an ulterior motive?"

"That's not fair, Rabb, and you know it." She pouted and reached for another cookie.

She was right. He just wanted to say something that would hurt her - just a little. It was a shitty thing to do. He set down the water bottle and stood behind her.

"I was referring to my cookies."

The sting subsided and she graced him with another of her Mary smiles, the kind that stripped his resistance, knotted his tongue and depleted his bank account.

"I'm being awarded a trip for being the most productive member of the purchasing team." She turned into his arms and stared into his eyes.

Peter blushed and chewed his lip. "Aw shit, I'm sorry, Mare. You should have said that up front."

"I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Great. Pound it home, like I don't feel bad enough." He gazed at her calm expression, swimming helplessly in the twin pools of gold flecked, green eyes. "Congratulations. I'd love to come to your party."

She smiled and squeezed his fingers. "You are a silly man, Peter, and I love you." She leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

Butterflies on cotton.

The sensation never failed to dismantle his knees. "So when is it again?" His sigh signalled surrender and Mary relaxed, cupping his face with her hands and sharing another, longer kiss.

He missed her answer as the rest of his skeleton crumbled - his own surprise forgotten in the moment.