Lost in Translation

Sleepless in Phoenix, kept awake by the voices below me, I'm watching Lost in Translation.

The first time I saw it in the theaters, I was by myself. I was in a crowd, in a too-large theater in San Francisco. The Metreon, I think. There was a woman next to me who kept loudly explaining all the nuances to her companion. I wanted to shove my fist so far down her throat that she would feel it in her kidneys, but instead I concentrated on the movie. It worked, sort of.

The next time I saw it I was with Adam. We were in the apartment he once shared with his girlfriend, the one he was in the process of moving out of. She was already gone. "It's so quiet," he said. When we lay on the couch I was amazed at how well he made our bodies fit together, how we wrapped around each other as if we were designed to do just that.

Tonight I am alone. I have a greater understanding of the movie, of the silences that stretch when you're alone, when you watch the world and realize you don't have much of a part in it. I understand that perhaps better than I should.