Where Sea Meets Sky

After I examined a tucked-away cupboard and brought out a stack of vintage porn magazines from the late seventies—apparently Gemma’s uncle had left more than just Pink Floyd behind—Gemma remembered there was a really cool movie theater in the lakeside town. They only took reservations and there wasn’t much choice of what to see, but none of us really cared as long as it got us out of what would forever be known as the Shaggin’ Wagon. I mean, Pink Floyd and porn? Gemma’s uncle must’ve been a busy guy.

After a quick phone call to reserve seats for whatever movie was playing in the evening, we busied ourselves with a trip to the nearby Puzzling World, which consisted of a bunch of visual exhibits engineered to make you feel high as fuck. When we were appropriately disoriented, we headed to the cinema early to grab dinner there.

I’ve never seen a cinema quite like this. From the outside it looks like your average mountain chalet, other than the fact that there’s this weird sculpture on the roof. Inside there’s a brightly colored bar and café filled with movie posters. We order salads and burgers and split two bottles of wine between the four of us.

The wine is almost gone when the doors to the cinema open. The waiter tells us we can order more food or drinks and take them inside if we want. Amber asks if I’ll split another bottle with her, and because I’m feeling buzzed I can’t say no.

Armed with alcoholic provisions and full bellies, we head into the theater part and I am blown away. Though there are a few old-fashioned theater seats on the rows leading down to the projection screen, the rest consist of a smattering of airplane seats and couches from the seventies and eighties. There are plaid love seats and velvet chaises, and at the very front is a fucking car. Yeah, like a yellow fifties convertible. Some lucky bastards are already climbing into it and claiming their seats.

“Holy schnikes,” Amber says from beside me in her best Chris Farley impression. “This is the coolest place ever.”

Even Nick gives out an impressed, “Wow.”

But while we stand there gawking at the gloriously haphazard room, the couches and seats are all filling up fast. It’s a rainy night in the outdoor capital of the world, and it seems all of Wanaka and maybe even nearby Queenstown has come to the movies.

Nick grabs Gemma’s hand and leads her down toward the front, snagging a love seat before another couple is about to sit down.

I’m looking around wildly, not wanting to end up in the boring theater seats when everything else is so cool.

“Hey hot stuff, over here,” Amber calls out, and I see her down the back row, snagging what looks to be an oversized armchair, the kind that Archie Bunker used to complain in all day. I bring the wine over and try and figure out how we’re both going to sit on this thing.

“You can sit on my lap,” she says with a coy smile and I laugh.

“Right,” I say. “I’m a foot taller than you and twice as heavy. I’ll crush you like an itty bitty ant.”

“You’re right,” she says. “I remember in Abel Tasman when you accidently rolled over me in the night. Thought I was going to die more than once. Death by Josh.”

“Lies,” I tell her, though knowing my predisposition for falling out of bunks, it might be true.

I sit down, placing the bottle of wine and glasses on the small table beside us and make room so she can fit in between me and the cushy arm. She’s small but her ass is big (nothing I would ever complain about), so she ends up sitting half on me. I’ve been known to get boners at inappropriate times, like when a hot chick sits on me, so I really hope it doesn’t happen now and give her the wrong idea.

The movie starts, some art house flick starring Scarlett Johansson that I wouldn’t normally see, but we didn’t have a choice, and hey, it’s Scarlett. We drink our wine, even though I have to reach over her every few minutes to either pick up my glass or put it down, and each time I do, I brush against her breasts.

My dick stirs in my pants.

This isn’t good and I know, I know, that Amber can tell.

I try and concentrate on the film. This is also a bad idea. Naked Scarlett isn’t helping at all, she’s just making things worse.

When the room goes really black during a nighttime scene, I feel Amber turn into me, her breathing hard and loud. Before I have a chance to prepare myself, her fingers are in my hair, her hand on my crotch, and she kisses me.

Her lips are light at first, and there’s enough time to pull back and protest, if I want to. What I’d say, I don’t know. I’ve never been very good at rejecting girls. But then she’s kissing me harder and my mouth opens, letting her. The feel of her tongue in my mouth elicits a small moan from me, and I can’t help but get sucked into it, the feeling of her want and need for me.

I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel good, that it doesn’t turn me on, this feeling of being wanted. She’s fumbling for my zipper and I’m afraid this can’t end well. The problem is, I do find Amber hot and funny, and I do like her as a person. But she’s not the one I want to be with, and because of that I can’t lead her on. If I didn’t like her, well, sad to say but I wouldn’t have a problem with it.

I’m gathering up all of my strength to pull away and put some distance between us, preparing what I’m going to say to her after the movie, that I’m not interested in her that way and then be faced with the bone-crushing awkwardness that will surely follow, when suddenly the movie stops playing and the lights in the theater flick on. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">