A Ghost Story

You walk into this film fifteen minutes late, because, hell, you bought your ticket and you’re going to get your money’s worth. Clambering through dark and over patrons, you thunk down in your seat. Making yourself comfortable, you turn your attention to the screen.

It’s the late afternoon, Rooney Mara is walking around a darkened kitchen. It’s a modest house; dusty windowsills, paint stains the edges of the glass. Dappled sunlight rests gently on the outdated plywood cabinets. Mara is silent as she approaches the dining table, picks up a note left next to – what is that? – a pie.

She turns, grabs a knife from the drawer, and tentatively cuts herself a slice. Then she grabs a fork and suddenly plunges it into the middle of the pie, and helps herself to mouthful after mouthful of the dish.

She takes it in her arms, steps backwards and slides down the counter behind her, bite after bite. She’s curled up in the corner of the kitchen, eating. You hear the clink of the fork against the porcelain.

Bite. Fork. Carve out pie more with the fork. Bite.

Your eyes stray to the empty hallway behind her. The dust hangs in the air, and time softly distorts.

Rooney Mara is eating a pie on the floor of a darkened kitchen. She sniffs.

There is a tear hanging from her nose as she eats.

You are enraptured.

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