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.

It seemed we were "walking around" the incident.

I observed interactions between guests and employees, the worker clicked the buttons on the touch screen, taking in orders.

How do I bring up the conversation about Mom? I want to ... go back to it was before. And – a-about August?

I rubbed my forehead.

A heavy weight pressed against my chest. My eyelids blinked in a slow motion. My sore arms came to my sides. My hair unbrushed and tangled in knots.

I wished I was underneath my soft, lavender scented covers. Hidden. Concealed from Papa, my mom, co-workers, the documentary's audience, and most importantly August.

Yes, I was definitely at a seven.

How did he notice? How did he know I was off? I told him I was fine. His eyes had stared. "Really? I don't believe you." He called me out.

I scratched my scalp.

He remembered my mom. He can see through me.

It had been five days since the documentary day. Wait, no, a mini-series – the project had a new title. When August got sick, I rubbed his back. I held onto his elbow, guiding him to the park shelter. The concrete floor and oak wood established a triangle shadow, and I told him to sit. The peach-white tables kept the cooling temperature. August plopped on the stiff material. He breathed uneven, long and short going back and forth.

I took the bottled water from his hand. I unscrewed the clear plastic cap. A crack noise.

"Sip," I brought the bottle to August's lips, "Drink slowly."

His Adam's apple moved up and down. He gulped. "I'm sorry-"

"Keep drinking."

This was another time he had apologized to me. It was happening often.

I tipped the bottle to his lips once more.

He gave me a look.

A cute, scrunchy eye gaze.

With his cotton fabric shirt under my fingertips, I sustained the circular motion on his back. The sunshine beating down on the park's shelter, the open sky welcomed us. The man-made shadow concealed August for a moment to pause, the film shooting on hold for a hot minute. Wind breeze swept on our sweat – small goosebumps prickled, our body adjusted to the new temperature.

"That was disgusting," August groaned. He wiped his spit on the back of his hand.

"It happens."

"I know," he paused, "That wasn't the point."

I avoided his eyes.

"I'm used to it," I replied, "Believe me, I'm not saying it wasn't filthy. It's bodily fluids."

August chuckled.

"You make it sound all warm and fuzzy with your scientific wording." He puckered his lips. I eyed them, the shape and color: round, full, and too light of a pink. August shook his head, added a deeper tone to his voice, "Bodily fluids."

"Cause that's what it is," I stated, dismissing his laughter. My skin warmed.

I sat up in a better posture on the solid seating. He sat to the right of me, his leg a few centimeters away, near my leg. The little space drew my attention, pinpointing the distance. If I crossed my legs then the space increased. August continued to talk. The words jumbled and incoherent to me.

I picked my leg up, crossing my right overtop of my left knee.

Excellent. There's more space –

August turned, "Sugar?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your answer?"

He scooted over into my space. His thigh pressed on my thigh.

"T-To what?"

August grinned. "Nothing. I didn't say anything."

I tried to breathe.

"I highly doubt that. You always have something to say," I declared.

"You do too."

His arm touched mine. His skin's warmth transferred over to me, my skin flushed. The closeness. The breathing.

The warning bells rang – shouted in my mind.

"Thanks," my voice rose at the end like a question because I ran out of responses to tell August.

He leaned in.

His. Eyes.

Even with the awful alcohol, acid breath – he somehow appeared good-looking. Not drop dead gorgeous because of what he previously did. His shirt clung to his body. His shoulders and biceps, a little big, not too broody, I saw his form fitted muscles. His smile. It touched something within me.

"I – I –"

"Cut!"

A voice shouted.

Broke the touching.

August and I flinched, tugging our arms and legs apart. I readjusted the jacket I'd borrowed from Violet.

"Cut?" August's voice grew louder.

"Yes."

A woman walked onto the shelter's man-made ground. The high oak ceiling reinforced an echo - high heels were thick, wide to aid in balance – a deep clump resounded as she walked up to them.

"I saw the chance. It was a subtle, cute conversation. We had to record it," she stated.

I stared at this woman.

Who was she?

She spoke to August informally, teasing, controlling, and flirting. His responses were hard, cold, and sharp.

I opened my mouth to cuss and shout names to this stranger. Half-moons cut deep in my skin, I closed my mouth and I gripped my arm.

"What the hell, Penelope?!" August shouted instead.

"It was terrific!"

"This was a private conversation-"

"We needed a scene – she rescued you. Usually it's 'the guy rescues the girl trope'-"

"You delete the shot-"

"August needs rest. No cameras," I said. This must be Penelope. My statement came out strict and bland.

Penelope waved her hands walking off the shelter. "Sure. Sure."

Camera people leaned over the device, holding onto the black stick to maintain focus on the two. Violet came running, her cell phone slipped back into her pocket. She stepped in front of the cameras' lens.

"We'll wait. You hear me?!" Violet pointed to the camera people.

They nodded their heads. Their headsets followed their movement, one gentleman's headset fell in front of his face.

A hiss escaped August's lips.

I spun to face him.

"Sh-" August wiped his hands on his jeans. "This is awful."

"It'll be okay."

"It's a chaotic mess – why are you still here, Courtney and Victoria left. Why are you here?"

His longing eyes waited for my answer. It seemed he meant to ask himself, then he directed it at me.

Why? Indeed.

I pushed the whole interaction – my memories kept recalling him. The sideways look. Him touching his nose, eyelids, lips, and neck.

Why am I doing this?

I received the halfway point money. It took my debt number down to a fourth. By my calculations, I'd finish paying off my loans in six months instead of a year. The money wasn't it.

His gentle touch.

His thighs pressed against mine.

He remembered the phone call.

His long hug, his arms wrapped around my frame, enough space for oxygen to get in my lungs. His finger wiping my tears.

I liked him.

I like-like him.

Wait.

I couldn't.

I wasn't his type. My awkward phrases. Telling him off. The controlling type where I must have everything accounted for. Me turning down his help, when I hurt my foot – he told me I could hold onto him. I limped. I told him, "I'm fine."

His type was the long leg, tan, seductive woman who could say anything and make it sound "nice." August's ideal woman would be confident in what she wanted. I pictured a woman with flawless skin, no scars, pimples, knew how to apply make-up, could down a scotch in less than five seconds. A woman who would say the word "watermelon" and make it sound appealing. Drawing out vowels and a cute twang on the "l" sound. I bet all the internet women he met could say better than how I could.

He didn't like me like that anyway!

He was being kind.

That's all.

His nice cues when he picked up Monica, when he came over to annoy me on Valentine's Day, he tickled Monica's sides to persuade out a vibrate laughter. The teasing names, Lollipop. He fell on the ice, I held his hand as I guided him and taught him how to ice-skate. His constant text messages, bubbling up my phone. The bake sale – licking the icing.

No. No! NO!!

Those were examples of how he changed. To be friendly.

He could never like me that way. He enjoyed one night, fierce affairs with little to no emotional attachments. One thing that hadn't changed.

Therefore, we had different ideal partners.

I'd ignore my feelings. Push them deep down within. Once the shooting was complete, I'd be on my own path. He would be on his.

Two separate trails.

I couldn't mention these thoughts to Lydia. Lydia would've persuaded me to either drop August all together or "go for it!" I wanted neither confirmation nor dismissal.

My go-to person was Mama.

She'd laugh at my mannerisms. I explained the ticklish sensation originating in my toes to my fingers, I'd desire to take hold of these bubbly feelings and toss them in the trash.

Now.

Who was left?

Would Papa listen? Probably not.

I'd ignore the signs. Store and file the memories into a holder. The paper memories, I'd have to squeeze, crumbling edges and ripping the corners. It was overflowing. I had to tell someone. Before the papers flew out and scattered everywhere, escaping the holder.

Yes, I'll do that.

"Sugar, are you ready for the movie?" Papa asked.

His voice resounded behind me. Reality check, I was in the movie theater waiting in line for snacks and drinks.

I'm at an eight now.

"Almost," I readjusted my purse strap on my shoulder, "Need to get your milk caramels and water, then get my cola slushy and small popcorn."

"I'm alright," Papa eyed the line, "If you want to, we can go in the theater."

"Let's get our snacks."

This is going to be like any other superhero movie. The same.

"Okay," Papa smiled, his eyes wavered, "I'll stand in line with you."

I twirled my fingers. My feet crossed in and then out. Papa and I moved in step when the line continued forward. Guests chatted, kids jumped up and down with their parent's hands glued to theirs so then the children wouldn't escape. Five small televisions showed the menu, prices, and cartoon snacks and candies smiling at the guests.

This is ridiculous!

"Papa," I gushed out. "About mo – Cassidy."

"I won't push you."

I twirled to my right.

"What you said," Papa replied, rubbing his eyes, "You brought up good questions, why now?"

"That's why-"

Papa held his hand up. "Let me finish. I had those same questions too. I asked Cassidy," I flinched at the name, "I asked, why didn't you attend the funeral? Why no communication? I threw them at her Sugar. I did. You know what she did?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"She answered. We sat down in front of Mama's gravestone. I listened to what she had to say. She told me what happened," Papa paused, "I didn't want to listen. After all, she changed her phone number, wouldn't respond to our messages through the mail, her P.O. Box. She was radio silent."

Papa titled his head. His eyes heavy with longing. "I thought I would never see her again."

"Then she showed up. At Mama's gravestone. She kept the funeral invitation you sent her," he continued.

She received it? I thought she gave us a fake P.O. Box.

"I'll be meeting her next week," Papa grinned, "I'm not pressuring you to come. I wanted to inform you. It's your decision, Sugar, just like it was Cassidy's decision to reach out."

Thanks Papa.

I bit my lip.

"What happened?"

Papa held up his hands, his smile grew, "It's her story. You'll have to hear it from her."

"Next."

Papa stepped up and ordered our snacks, including his own. Guess he wanted his treats after all. I half-listened to Papa and the employee's conversation, I held onto my purse, hanging on my right side.

Her story? What happened to her?

I imagined a crazy ex-boyfriend, my father yelling and wanting full custody of me. Or a mob gangster threatening Cassidy and she took action to save her daughter before Cassidy got captured. Gosh, I had been watching too many movies. In real life, Cassidy's story could be ... similar to my patients. The woman who lost her leg, elderly gentleman lonely decided to call the emergency hotline to hear another person's voice, the young teenager that experimented and cut their finger by accident. All had reason. All had motivation. They had a story. Cassidy had a story.

"When are you meeting her next week?" I asked.

Papa held all the goodies. Two small popcorn fell out of the paper bag.

"On Wednesday," he grabbed a long plastic straw, hit the counter to get the paper off, and placed the straw in the cola slushy, "Do you work in the evening?"

"I'll have to check."

I can't remember my schedule.

"That's fine," Papa declared, "Call me when you find out. I'll let Cassidy know."

I nodded. My shoulders relaxed into a loose position.

Breathe. My eight has shifted to a five.

"Will do."

"Here's yours," Papa handed over the small popcorn bag and drink. "Let me get our tickets."

The tickets were in his back pocket.

"I've seen one trailer – I think they'll hint Mr. Silverman in this movie."

"No way! That'll be so cool!" I freaked out.

We laughed.

This is how it should feel.

We climbed up the ramp leading to an unamused, sleeve stained employee. His eyes droopy, his thumb ripped the perforated ticket stub.

"Your movie is in theater seven," his monotone voice tickled me. "Enjoy your movie."

"Thank you," Papa said.

I held her hand up to my face, taking five steps or more, I whispered, "He seems happy."

"Indeed."

We walked into the medium lighting room, eight rows of seats filled the auditorium. Identical black leather chairs went down the line. Other guests sat in their assigned placements, eating and chatting about, we sat on the right side. One seat separated them from another group.

Movie trivia filled the screen. Multiple choices were underneath the questions, pre-gaming the movie; a distraction to help in passing the time.

I didn't need the multiple choice.

It was Sherlock.

My mind went back to August.

He began watching the show because I suggested it ... as a friend.

I grabbed a handful of my popcorn. My chewing applied heavy pressure, my jaws tensed, I squeezed more popcorn in my mouth.

Should I ask Papa about -? No. He would tease me. He would –

I turned to my left.

Mama did say ... he can help. Maybe.

Papa sipped on his water.

"I have a question."

"I have ears."

"It's about a guy," I drew out the phrase, a cheesy word to add distance to oneself, myself. Papa rolled his eyes, chuckling, "Yes?"

He implied for me to go on.

"If a guy spends time with this person – even teases, goes out of his way to continue a conversation or support a person, a woman, does that mean he likes her?"

Papa tilted his head.

"Like a friend?" I said. Fast. "Just a friend."

Papa chewed on his treats.

"When a man likes a woman, she'll know because he will tell her. As in more than a friend. Unless, he's scared."

August isn't the scared type.

"I see."

I fell back against the chair, leather cushion.

Then he sees me as a friend. He wants a woman like he craved on our first "date."

Papa laughed.

I leaned forward again, popcorn bag on my lap, "What?"

"My statement was half true. I liked Patricia, more than a friend, not quite love. Affection is a better word. But," he nodded, chuckling, "It was her that made the first move."

"Really?" I blinked, my hand went back into the popcorn bag, "Why?"

"I'll let you in on a secret," Papa leaned a little closer, I did as well, "Every man is afraid. Just a little. If he isn't then that'll mean he doesn't share the same feelings as you."

I nodded.

The lights dimmed.

The screen got quiet, projecting, "And now here's our show."

Previews played, setting up the movie.