Throughout his career, actor John Paravati has stuck with what he told the gossip rags -- he's been in like, in lust, even in respect once or twice, but never love. All he's ever cared about is performing. If he's stuck now doing commercials for cruise lines, at least it's better than shilling adult diapers.<br><br>But Hollywood pretends, and John is a master. Because once upon a time, he loved two things more than anything -- his best friend Frank and the movie palace he used as sanctuary.<br><br>Over fifty years ago, John ran away from his hometown. Now, someone has restored the theater he left behind, and they want John at its relaunch. The memories still sting, but he agrees to attend, even though it means dealing with heartache. At seventy-seven, he's too old to hold onto the hurt. The question is, however, is he too old to start over once it's gone?

The Hearts of Yesteryear

Flipping past it was harder than it should’ve been, especially when the paper beneath it was another photo. This one was in full color, a morning sun overexposing the spit-shined theater and the smiling couple standing under the marquee. They were in their forties, the man solidly built, the woman small and thin enough to remind John of an ex-lover’s nervous whippet. The dog had been so high-strung, she piddled if anyone spoke louder than a whisper. After their first time, John had refused to have sex at his ex’s house because he’d stolen out of the bedroom after a particularly rigorous couple of hours, only to step into a huge puddle. The combination of dog piss and Italian marble polished to the point where a blind man could see his reflection proved deadly. John slipped and snapped his wrist trying to break his fall.


“That’s Amanda and her husband,” Corrine volunteered, bringing him back from his sidetrack. “Didn’t they do a great job matching the original look?”


Chapter 11