May 9, 1980

You’d seen the posters, the advertisements. The hottest slasher film since The Texas Chain Saw Massacre was set to premiere—Friday the 13th.

Charlie was more than pleased when you had invited him—mostly because he loved spending time with you, but also because he had an affinity for the stranger media that was out there.

He had a collection of Betamax tapes; ones that recorded virtually every episode of The Twilight Zone, and that show was enough to give a lot of your peers the chills sometimes.

You and Charlie had seen a few slashers together, a genre of horror that you’d found yourself enjoying and one that you were working to introduce him to. He’d loved every one you saw together, and jumped at the chance to watch more with you.

This time, it was a little different.

You’ve bought tickets from the theater a week in advance, the paper cutouts tucked away in your wallet, but an hour and a half before showtime, Charlie’s got you preoccupied.

You’re curled up with him in his bed upstairs—thankfully, no one’s ratted him out yet for having you up there—and he is intent on keeping you right there beside him.

The warmth of his chest is settled against your back, one arm heavy around your waist, the other tucked under your head, a lit joint held loosely between two of his fingers.

Every once in a while, he’ll bring his hand up to take a hit, offer you some, and then return to his previous position.

You know that you should probably get up to get ready for the movie—especially since you paid close to $8 up front for the tickets a week ago—but he’s so warm behind you that it’s making it hard to want to leave.