019

I was at an Everyman cinema to watch My Week With Marilyn with a friend of mine and as we were settling into our seats I noticed, in the seat in front, a man sitting, his right ankle resting on his left knee, with a mobile phone held up in his left hand. The screen was held up at an angle, so I could see what was on display. Which was nothing. It was totally blank – the start of a text message. While the adverts rolled and my friend tucked into her pick 'n' mix, I watched the screen and waited to see what this guy was going to write. I'm not sure why I wanted to see. No, wait, yes I am. Pure scandalous curiosity; maybe there'd be something funny/filthy. My friend and I had just been discussing the shocking stories emerging from the Leveson inquiry and the scummy ethics of the tabloid press. I tried to forget my own ethical views as I waited for the secret message to appear.

The adverts finished and the trailers started and still he hadn't written anything. He hadn't moved. He was sat in the same position, looking at the blank screen. And so was I. Was he thinking? Searching hard for the right words? Was he high? Slow? In the middle of some cataclysmic mental collapse? Why wasn't he writing anything?! My friend must have sensed my growing discomfort because she leaned over and asked me what I was doing. I whispered back that I was going to see what this guy was going to write, keeping my eyes on the screen at all times while whispering to her, and she just seemed to shrug and go back to watching the trailers.

The trailers ended and the film began. He hadn't written anything. His thumb hadn't even twitched. I couldn't see his face, but I was willing to bet he hadn't even blinked. That was a point, was he even awake? I'd assumed he was just because of the way he was sitting, but maybe he had narcolepsy or something and had passed out like that. I started to lean forward in order to check and then paused. If he wasn't asleep, he was going to see me lean right over and look into his face. Which would probably perturb him. To find out, I'd have to go out of our row, cross in front of him two rows down and try and get a look. The cinema wasn't full, but there were a few people in every row and it would definitely cause annoyance. I turned around quickly to have a look behind me. And there wasn't any guarantee that I'd be able to even tell whether his eyes were open or not.

And then, as if by divine response, he sighed. In a decidedly awake and conscious manner. It wasn't a lonesome complaint, or a soft moan, but there was something to it – some bridled emotion – that I couldn't quite pinpoint. My head had already gone through all the possible texts he could be sending. To his mistress, requesting a meeting. To his boss, telling him that he quits. To his mum, who's been diagnosed with cancer. To his son on his birthday. To his girlfriend, telling her where he's sat. To his best mate, explaining why he can't be his best man. To the family, with the ransom demands. To the babysitter, telling her where the fire extinguisher is. To his boyfriend, detailing what he's going to do to him tonight. To God, asking for more money. The sigh could fit any of those potential messages, but it was at least a definite sign that he was conscious and thinking.

Marilyn Monroe was saying something to Kenneth Branagh, who I think was playing Laurence Olivier, and she was crying – near hysterics – and Olivier was getting frustrated and telling her just to be sexy, wasn't that what she was paid for? And then Monroe stormed off. I had no idea why they were saying these things to each other, and I realised I had completely missed the first twenty minutes of the film. A few moments later I realised I'd missed over an hour of the film. All I could focus on was the soft purple light radiating from the screen a metre in front of me. It reflected off shiny patches of the man's skin and shone through his curly hair. It left little trails in my eyes wherever I moved them. My friend tugged at my sleeve, I told her to leave me alone. It was coming, I could sense it, a rising in my stomach, an awareness that this guy had finally come to some conclusion about what he was going to write. His thumb, I swear I saw it twitch.

It appeared Marilyn had taken one too many pills. Branagh and whoever was the main character were sitting in a cinema, watching her on screen. The man's thumb darted down, an 'X' appeared on the screen and he hit send. I never knew who to. I guess he couldn't think of anything better to say.