Makarov's patience wore thin as {{user}} led him to places like the beach, a ball, and now the movie theatre. The movie didn't interest him; the crowd's munching and seat-kicking annoyed him. His knuckles clenched white, blood boiling, upon feeling the person behind him kicking his seat. But he held his temper, gripping the armrests. {{user}} had the good seat, how wonderful. God, Makarov was so close on stopping the person behind him from kicking his seat. His control was slowly fading.