"You really like old movies, huh?"
The question came from behind the bar, where Old John was polishing a glass more out of habit than necessity. His eyes were on Henry, not the TV.
They hadn't known each other that long, but John had seen enough to get a feel for the kid.
Maybe Henry had secrets. Maybe he wasn't… normal.
But John didn't care.
He was an old-school kind of man. You lend a hand to the next generation, sure—but what they do with that help? That was their story.
All he asked was honesty, humility, and a willingness to work without whining. The kind of values his generation clung to like gospel.
And Henry?
For all his quirks, he passed the test.
So when John saw something he didn't understand, he didn't pry—he asked. Simple as that.
Like now.
Henry had been glued to the tiny CRT TV more than usual. Not the news. Not the weather. The old movies. Black and white classics, grainy reels from decades ago.
And not just once. If something replayed, he'd watch it again. A third time. Still with the same rapt attention.
When John asked, Henry didn't answer right away. His eyes shifted slowly—first one, then the other—like a camera panning away from a scene. Then he turned his head, almost reluctantly.
As if waking from a dream.
"…They're beautiful," he said finally, voice low.
And he meant it.
To a man raised on 21st-century anime girls and high-def Instagram filters, black-and-white films should've felt like ancient fossils. At best, outdated. At worst, unbearably cringe.
He'd seen clips online back in the day—over-the-top silent films, Chaplin pratfalls, exaggerated acting that felt more like mime than cinema. He used to laugh at it.
But after nearly twenty years in a sterile, lightless lab—with no music, no books, no color, no people—even a scratchy movie on a busted TV screen was a revelation.
At first, it was just something to fill the silence.
But now… it was everything.
He wasn't watching for film school aesthetics. He didn't care about camera angles, lighting, or editing.
What hooked him was simpler. Purer.
The women.
The actresses of Hollywood's Golden Age. Their elegance. Their mystique. Their faces.
No filters. No heavy contouring. Just raw, natural charm.
He'd been without beauty for so long—his eyes starved for softness, for warmth—that even grayscale radiance felt like sunlight.
And one woman in particular stole his breath every time.
Audrey Hepburn.
At that moment, she was riding shotgun on a Vespa through Rome, her laughter ringing out in glorious black and white. Roman Holiday was playing again, and Henry didn't even try to hide the dreamy look on his face.
"She's what real dreams are made of," he muttered, gesturing at the screen.
John snorted in agreement. "Golden Age actresses aren't like the plastic ones we got now. Not every woman who pouts at the camera is a Monroe."
"Monroe, huh," Henry said, with a raised brow and a half-smile. "No offense, but I'll take Audrey over Marilyn any day."
He wasn't dissing Monroe directly—but his tone made it clear: class over cleavage, every time.
That got a rise out of the regulars.
A chorus of old-man groans and soda-can hisses erupted from around the room.
"Kid's got no taste," one of them grumbled. "You ever tried cuddling a stick? Bones'll poke your ribs. Monroe had curves you could drown in."
"She was America's sweetheart," another added. "Audrey looks like she'd vanish if you sneezed too hard."
"You fools," someone else cut in. "Garbo. Greta Garbo was the real goddess. Cold as ice, but worth burning for."
"Bah, you all lack vision," said a gray-bearded man by the jukebox. "Hedy Lamarr—that woman was pure lust in human form. I saw her once, and I never stopped thinking about her. Not once."
Henry leaned back, blinking at the bickering chaos. "Wait, all of you have different top picks? Like, that different?"
The men chuckled.
"Son, it ain't about who's best. It's about knowing what real beauty used to be."
"Back when every face on screen didn't look like it came out of a Botox factory."
"These days, anyone with a nose and two eyes gets cast."
"There's too much choice," another chimed in. "Too many options make you forget what good looks like."
"Honestly," someone muttered, "I think you lot just argue for sport."
"Better than talking about cholesterol."
"Hey, let a man dream. At our age, it's all we've got."
"Dream all you want," a voice called from the back. "But keep it PG and make sure you're home before your wife finds your search history."
Then one particularly crusty old-timer added, "At the rate Hollywood's falling, we'll probably get some square-faced, wide-mouthed goblin as the next leading lady. Big enough to eat the camera lens whole."
The entire bar burst into laughter.
Except Henry.
Henry had his head in his hands, groaning softly.
"Oh God," he muttered. "Don't give them ideas. Just… don't. You guys joke now, but in a few decades… you'll see."
He didn't elaborate. Didn't explain. But his tone sent a ripple of unease through the laughter.
It was all in good fun—until someone asked:
> "Say, Henry… If you're that into movies… why not go to Hollywood?"
And just like that, the room went quiet.
Dead quiet.
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