Wilson reached out to adjust the oversized frame on the wall, squaring it with the straight line of the corner. The bright color and block letters looked out of place in a room filled with tranquil shades of green and dark cherry woods, and Wilson had to remind himself of why he'd brought it.
Once a week, in the Sunday morning light of summer, he had ridden his bicycle to the movie theater on Penn Avenue-the new multiplex had been too far away and always crowded-and had parked it against the rough brick wall beside the ticket window. Beneath the glassy shine of the unlit light bulbs of the marquee, he'd stood at the window, trading a fistful of coins-half of his wages from mowing lawns and delivering newspapers-for a movie ticket. The concessions attendant had still called him 'Little Jimmy', even though he'd been a teenager then and had grown another few inches during the school year, but the attendant still had a Coke cold and ready before he'd made it to the counter. He'd had the theater to himself most Sunday mornings. He'd leaned back in his seat, crossed his legs over the seat in front of him, and sipped from his Coke as if he'd made himself at home in his own personal living room, in front of a larger-than-life screen. An escape, just for himself.
The theater had closed the following year, and the box office manager had given him an armful of posters. He'd kept and framed his favorites, given away or sold the rest. Over the years, he'd gotten into the habit of hanging them as a personal touch to a new place. His college dorm, a new apartment. Now, his new office. Just for himself.