I sit down in a seat just slightly to the left of center, for my delicate ears, which support a pair of emeralds to bring out the verdant depths of my large green eyes, prefer an acoustic situation that favors my right ear just the tiniest bit. Usually we super-models win awards and are coveted by the globe's salivating population because of our almost goddess-like symmetry, but just like Cynthia Crawford's beauty mark just above the right corner of her full, pouting lips, my own imbalance of invisible horseshoe, hammer, and drum assures that not only do I make a stunning portrait, with my high cheekbones rouged by Claude de Ponce Fontaine, an award winning make-up artist and militant homosexual, but I also make a stunning profile; my portfolio with stills from Pepsi commercials and a defunct K-Mart endorsement included includes shots of my portrait and profile that resemble mug shots taken at a busy but efficient inner-city police department.

I am eating little bites out of each kernel of popcorn that my long, slender fingers produce from the crunchy but resilient bag, each one tipped by fire-engine red nails that I painted my self with Clairol products. My fingers, not the popcorn, silly! I have purchased the five-dollar free-refill bag, which when I set on my lap, feeling the warmth drip unabashedly out of the bag and into the forest green cotton of my leggings and into my muscular but attractive well-tanned thighs, covers the largest part of not only my abs of steel but also a significant part of my pert spunky bosom. It is a large bag. I take bites out of each kernel, consuming them in three bites or, when two kernels have become caught in a sort of corny coitus, five bites. Remarking once on my waistline which had thankfully changed not at all during my pregnancy with Lucille my daughter, Claude mentioned that my eating habits are efficient. He is kind and not at all catty like other emaciated homosexuals of his ilk, and therefore did not add the word busy.

An advertisement for bonbons comes on the screen, and I chew popcorn throughout, mashing the starchy pulp first with my central incisors, then one canine, then a final popcorn finishing blow with my second pre-molar. The ad is very engaging and I let my eyes roam over the screen for the few seconds that it is on, alighting here and there on the colorful words and the pretty pictures. I can almost taste the crunchy smooth ice-cream treat: first the fingerprints on the tips of my handy digits would drink in the subtle cold through the chocolatey outer layers as I bring it to my mouth, opened just enough to receive the slightest degree of the domed treat. Then I would languidly lick the outside, wetting it for a second passing of my tongue, tasting the neo-plastic chocolate sweetness. Then a hint of aggression as my jaws tense to bite through the outer shell; your eyes don't bother watching me swallow but focus instead on the probing pink of my tongue as I lick the creamy insides, a playful drop of icy moisture running down the corner of my full red lips and under my stunningly complexioned chin. But I am not in the mood for the sweet seductive bonbon taste, but the salty jaw working greazy abandonment of the popcorn.

My fingers scrape greazy paper and I realize I have reached the bottom of the bag- and yet the movie has not started. I pull my seeing from the trivia question about Keeanu Reeves and look down and across a few aisles at a boy and his father, sharing a bag as large as mine. They eat with hungry handfuls of the stuff, but appear to be only a quarter of the way into their bag. Well, perhaps they only just arrived. I stand and twitch the muscles in my buttocks out of habit to allow blood to recirculate and to inhibit the growth of cellulite. I then stride purposefully down the aisles, my knees purposefully missing each seat as I make my way. Then I am in the lobby, the sudden change from dark to light not as harsh as it will be in I make a similar journey at the movie's end. I approach the snack bar, which like the house is thankfully free of customers and ask the pimpled but potentially handsome girl there for a refill, which is to be free as designated by not only the large, eye-catching sign above the popcorn machine, but also by the same but miniaturized label on the bag itself. She quickly demurs, suspecting my veracity not at all, despite weighing in under one hundred and five pounds, despite being six fee three inches tall, and does not wonder how someone of my obvious grace and litheness could consume what would appear to be one and a half gallons of popcorn alone, probably because I subtle turn one shoulder towards her and seem to look over it, as if I am deigning her a smidgen of my time and would become haughty and furious if she took up more than necessary. Of course I don't feel that way at all- if I were a princess I would gladly cavort with the peasants- but my gestures a largely borne of habit, so that I can participate in million dollar glamour shoots without muddling my busy but efficient brain with concentrating on which moves to make next. That gives me the chance to contemplate what kindergarten will be best for my daughter Lucille.

I demand no butter this time, although I took it before, my husband Frank having remarked earlier this week that he thought Ellen McPherson had a nice smile, and so when he makes love to me tomorrow at precisely twelve thirty he will be having sex with a woman who is a bit pudgier than he is used to, and when he ejaculates it won't be as voluminous, I am certain. But I cannot allow butter on this my second helping, lest I become so voluminous myself that he is forced to leave me and I lose my contract with Pepe Jeans. The candy counter girl quickly dissuades her hands from grasping the butter nozzle, a quickness that will take her places if she decides to be a surgeon, or a piano player, or work on an assembly line in an electronics factory. My eyes have a skill at picking out these details, a skill which I hope to put to good use during this film so that I can relate it in enough detail to my husband to make him jealous of my going alone. She hands me the bag with a shy smile. A few over-zealous kernels escape and submit to ruthless gravity, bouncing of the maroon carpeting below. Perhaps she is a lesbian.

I reenter the theater house main, the lights considerably darker, for the previews have started, and with impeccable but admittedly accidental timing I am coming upon them just as they start. I nibble my second snack helping and make my way to my seat this time not with eyes but with my ears, listening just so to the acoustic reverberations until I am certain I am where I was before. When a shot in the first preview uses a bright, blue sky as a backdrop I glance down and over to where the father-son duo should be, and sure enough they are there, their faces rapt, their hands moving slowly but unconsciously in and out of their now wrinkly greazy popcorn bag.

I consume the corn and watch the previews. Each one is fronted by a green assurance that it is indeed intended for all audiences, a green that is quite unlike any of the thousand green shirts, vests, sweaters, belts, pants, shorts, panties, bras, slips, camisoles, negligees, nightgowns, teddies, hosiery, pumps, heels, mules, trainers, stilettos, tea-gowns, formals, jumpers, summer dresses or skirts arranged in my gigantic closet both alphabetically and chronologically. But it is a green that I do not pay much mind to, my brain healing the burn marks of the previous preview in anticipation of the re-burning of the next preview. I watch one about an upcoming movie starring William Smith and Gwyneth Paltrow- he is a marine turned cop and she a marine biologist on a future earth that is visited by warring factions of an alien race, who want to subvert the dominate paradigm of Love Thy Neighbor and exterminate the humans and prepare Earth as a final battleground. It is filled with stunning explosions and loud careening car chase scenes, and of course, Will Smith's patented one liners, such as "Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout." when he fires a pyrotechnic projectile weapon at the head of an alien who is about to eat the head of the beautiful but freckle-faced Gwyneth Paltrow, not only because he was finally able to use an explosive weapon in a lethal manner, but also because the brains and blood of the alien splatter all over the tousled haired Paltrow, humbling her.

Another preview shows a cute little girl in a classroom all alone, trying to learn the four basic food groups: fruits and vegetables, meat, fish, and poultry, grains and cereals, and dairy products, when suddenly she spies a cute little elf or dwarf or gnome or leprechaun espying her from a wee little hole in the baseboard. When she investigates she unfortunately falls through broken boards and tumbles giggling down a tunnel into the land of the fairies, and has adventures and faces an evil queen, played, for some strange reason, by Bruce Willis. It looks like a take-off of Alice in Wonderland, and I will probably let Lucille see it someday, but not with her nanny Melusina; I will see it with her so that I can explain why it isn't really Alice in Wonderland.

There seem to be more previews than movie- another one, and although I've never seen it before, not having actually gone to a movie theater in at least a year, something is familiar about it. I realize at the same time that not only is it the movie that Mark Danning told me he was making about super models, as if I would consent to allow him to see me in the nude just so he would cast me in his sordid little picture, but also I have somehow once again reached the bottom of the popcorn bag. How disturbing. While I am certain that my legs, supported by calves grown strong while cavorting on beaches in thousand-dollar bathing suits for Sports Illustrated, by bosoms held gently but firmly as they bounce with every bound, my hair bespeckled with sand from when I was rolling about in the surf, seemingly laughing, actually thinking about my impending pregnancy and whether the salt water would damage my hair color or that of my zygote daughter, and indeed I did not much care to see this seamy preview for this out and out lie of a movie- Mark insisted that the super-model's life was all about temporary introductions, that being mere labels for clothing, being only advertisement, people do not actually enjoy us but use us as a conveyance to true enjoyment, that we are doors, not rooms, decorated like suburban doors in Christmas time with wreaths, but never allowed to share the turkey dinner and the football games- things to be entered and exited only. It's a load of hogwash, I don't even like turkey, it is subtly fattening, and football is for adrenalin junkies and overweight trailer-park denizens who have nothing better to do than live in the glory of having picked the team that somehow won the superbowl. So I had no desire to see this film, much less the preview, and I knew I could get back in time- but what if I was only allowed the one refill?

Certainly a second refill was unprecedented for a solo eater of the popcorn, I know, having looked at the father and son who are still only apparently half-way through the bag. Safeguards would probably be lax, therefore, and I could get the popcorn from another candy counter person, But what if it was my pimpled possibly sapphic friend? She knew I was going to be on bag number three. But then again, she seemed to be in my thrall, and would have even most likely refilled my Diet Pepsi if I had not only bought one but drained it as well, an impossibility because I have a bladder the size of a chickpea owing to three hundred tummy crunches every morning, on the floor on an aerobic mat while my husband pretends to read the paper but actually tries to snatch glances up my boxer shorts and Melusina prepares Lucille for another day of strained peas and carrots. The question was this- is popcorn fattening, when eaten at this volume? I mean, it is supposed to be virtually fat free, but there is no such thing is virtuosity when talking about orders of magnitude above the norm. But now I'm thinking about my husband's snide comment about Ellen, and decide that I have enough time after sex tomorrow at noon thirty to lose any weight I might gain from this popcorn binge, indeed, I will refrain from eating altogether until the shoot is done on the Cote d'Azur, and when I return I will be as slender and as forgiving as always, and my husband will be as sorry and as horny. If it weren't for the impending contract with Ocean Pacific, I might even contemplate at that time a little brother for Lucille, and let Frank cum inside me.

The life of a super model is tough, a never ending cycle of denial and reward, binge and purge, remember and forget. But we are made of steely stones, albeit graceful and awe-inspiring ones, and I race to the counter for what will most likely be my last bag of popcorn. This time it is a fellow in a suit and a horrible tie who helps me, and I have to remind him that the movie is about to start so that he will stop leering and start stuffing. He hands me back the bag, not bothering to ask if I'd like butter or salt, assuming I want neither. If I had time I would assert myself as the decision maker, and not subject to his assumptions, but I do not want to miss the beginning if the film. The beginning may contain a vital clue to the director's intentions as it pertains to the movie's theme or controlling idea. Certainly my pink but efficient brain would be able to patch together the theme even without this clue, and indeed, come up with what I had missed form sheer deduction, but I work hard enough, and would like to relax as I enjoy the movie.

The film is over. I was unable to honestly recall the title until they showed it, and even then did not give it place in my long term memory along with such vital statistics as my shoe size in five countries and my measurements as depending on the phases of the moon. But it was a good film nonetheless, containing much carnage and make-up to simulate innards and guts and of course, blood. I was not as convinced, however, by the fake blood as I was by the actor's supreme skill at portraying pain, and if it weren't for the fact that such contortions and can cause wrinkles, I myself might like to become an actress and play the leading roles in horror movies set in space. Certainly it would do Frank good to come home at around midday and see me splattered with fake blood and covered with alien intestines. I am almost certain he would be able to manage only the most minuscule sperm count on such occasions.

I walk into the Ladies to see if the third bag of popcorn that I finished and the fourth bag that I fetched during the love scene had made any noticeable difference in my physique yet. Thankfully no one is in the Jane so I lift up my shirt and gaze at the soft but muscular skin around my belly button. I can see perhaps a millimeter of extra girth there, which may be enough to render Frank impotent but one can't be sure if men are as observant as women. I lower my shirt and smooth it over my abs and consider my face in the mirror. Perhaps the layers of fat from the popcorn will land there too, which will be harder to diet away, but then again, I am a professional. My stomach growls and I realize I'm still carrying the empty bag- why not, it is a long drive home, I will get one more, fifth, refill and eat it on the way. Tomorrow at twelve twenty I might even microwave a bag of popcorn in anticipation of enjoying the look on Frank's face when he sees me and is crestfallen.