Fake It | ✔️

Twenty-Five | 💋

"A heart that can break is better than no heart at all."

- Mary Rubin

No word described pain's full value and potential. In the medical field, doctors and paramedics used measurements. One method was a scale: one to ten. Ten being excruciating sensation and one being a little scratch, annoying feeling. Full throttle punch to a hesitant thumb grazing that made one's hair stand up. Metaphors and similes assisted in the description. This method's system held little substantial value. There was a flaw.

Perception.

My ten could be Joey's five pain level, I would be crying whereas Joey would ask for a warm mint citrus tea to help distract him. A scale. Easy to move left or right to the numerical makers. The flexibility similar to how pain changed.

Another element to add into the mix, this measurement focused on physical pain. Emotional was another debate to dissect.

I'm at a seven. I think.

A silver popcorn maker produced the movie theater treat, the concession stand worker salted and squeezed liquid butter on the white circular fluff. The person opened the side door, using a tray to pick up and draw the snack out, mixing the salt and butter evenly. The pop machine derived a short hiss, a ruby and white striped cup pressed against the metal spigot to receive the sugary carbon drink.

I waited in line. Papa stood in a different line, getting our movie tickets.

A new superhero movie arrived. It was tradition, from the first day he explained in detail about the universes within these narratives. I leaned forward in my seat as Papa drove us in his pick-up truck to the theater today. Mama had no interest in the punches, defeating the villains, the "Easter eggs" foreshadowing in later films to arrive and past events, including the comic book creator guest starring in movies, and trying to figure out the ending before the other one does. Papa and I made it a competition.

Even after our conversation ... with my mom.

I called Papa saying, "Cedar-Man will be coming out. Want to-"

"I'm free Saturday," he answered.

"Perfect."

The car ride was quiet. I pushed the radio speaker on, kept the volume at a level four, classic rock music filled the void. Our usual chatter would be focused on what we've witnessed in the trailers, any clues, hidden connection to figure out the movie's plot. Also, small bantering on who'll find Clifford – the comic book genius creator – first. Instead, I dropped off Papa at the front entrance and parked the car.

I walked through the front doors. Papa waved at me.

"Go on in, I'll get the tickets."

I nodded.