An out-of-town indie film.

The two of them stood in line in the lobby. He asked her what snacks she wanted and bought her a bag of peanut M&Ms while he got the Raisinets. They seated themselves in the theater, a renovated auditorium where all of its bolted rows of chairs were replaced with couches and beanbag chairs. In the middle row of assorted furniture was a red, extra-large beanbag chair big enough to seat the both of them.

The film was called Tulips.

It was some coming-of-age film-school drama about teenagers learning about themselves. Jim was a little lost by how aimless the plot was, but Marie seemed into it. She laid her head on his shoulder and Jim stiffened at her touch. His heart beat in his chest and in his ears, but he eventually relaxed.

Halfway through the movie, an audible hiss rang in his left ear as Marie peed her diaper, the girl giving a sigh of relief. It was only five minutes later did Jim feel the need to push, undoing the pressure that built up in his body.

"Poopie," Jim muttered to himself. It was a quirk he had developed when he had just started to talk in his actual infant years. Nowadays he only did it when he was super relaxed. His bottom felt icky and even a little smelly, but living your whole life in diapers dulled your sensitivity to such things as the two of them reoriented themselves, having grown comfortable with one another.