"How original," Krystal said dryly, "The Blair Witch Project. This movie is old news, Jason!"
"Aww c'mon, Krys," he replied, walking to the ticket counter. "It's a good movie. Besides, who cares if we already saw it . . . you got your wish. You're out in public making guys drool at the sight of you and pissing the girls off cause you're so damn perfect!"
Krystal sighed, allowing herself to be appeased by Jason's comment. Turning ever so slightly, she glanced at her reflection in the theater's window. Shaking her hair into fashionable disarray with a slight toss of her head, she walked into the theater.
Jason turned into the first row under the balcony, settling in the center seat. He glanced at Krystal as he leaned back, stretching his long legs out, hooking the toes of his shoes behind the back of the seat in front of him. Standing in the aisle, Krystal pursed her lips. She glared at him, tapping her foot on the floor. Jason knew she hated sitting in the back row.
The lights dimmed as the opening credits flashed onto the big screen. With a loud sigh, Krystal sidled into the row and sat next to Jason.

"Oooo, oooo, here comes those crude stick thingys," Krystal said, "I am so scared."
Jason glanced at her, his index finger at his lips.
"Oh but you must protect me," she said in an exaggerated monotone, "from the eve-ill Ba-lare Wa-itch." She batted her lashes in her best damsel-in-distress impersonation.
Jason hunched lower in his seat, leaning slightly away from Krystal, not looking at her.
"For crying out loud," she pouted, "let's get out of here Jason. I'm bored. I can think of a thousand better ways to spend my night, then watching this amateurish film!"
"I want to watch the movie, Krystal," he whispered, "just be quiet, will ya? It's almost over."
"Well, you just stay then," she said as she stood up. "I'm leaving." She glanced at him, saw he wasn't jumping to follow her and stormed off, her heels clacking loudly.
Reaching the lobby, Krystal paced rapidly, unaware that there was no one about to witness how splendid she looked. She had always taken great pride in personally reaffirming the belief that redheads had tempers to match their fiery locks -- Krystal loved throwing dramatic temper tantrums, the larger the audience, the more she liked it.
"I'll show that loser," she said, "I'll phone Monica to pick me up . . . yeah, that's what I'll do. When the movie ends, he won't find me waiting here for his sorry ass. Let him worry about where I am, about how much trouble he's in. That'll fix him!"
She glanced at her reflection as she walked across the lobby to the pay phone, then swiftly punched in Monica's number. She tapped her foot, listening to the ringing, impatiently waiting for Monica to answer.
"Answer the phone, you little bitch," she said. On the fourth ring, she slammed the phone down. "Christ, you're useless! A pathetic loser . . . you and Jason deserve each other." Krystal glared at the phone. She tossed her hair off her shoulder with an angry flick of her wrist, and darted out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, her high heels killing her, Krystal considered turning around and heading back to the theater. Leaning against a tree, she jerked her shoes off and massaged the circulation back into her toes.
"Oh great," she said, "now I have a damn blister! Oooo, you'll pay for this Jason. Man that hurts. No way I can put these heels back on." Muttering angrily to herself, Krystal limped over to the curb.