Date night with my husband usually means dinner, maybe a drink, and then a movie. Nothing fancy. Last night, we went to see The Conjuring: Last Rites. I was ready for demons, creepy music, and at least one cheap scare that makes me wonder if AMC should hand out seat liners with the popcorn. What I wasn’t prepared for was the double feature taking place right under our noses.

About twenty minutes from the end of the movie, I noticed something strange in the row directly in front of us. People were leaving. Not in a group, not in a rush, just casually standing up and slipping out, one by one. At first, I thought the film might be too much for them. There were some pretty graphic scenes of blood and ugly demons, but nothing out of the ordinary when it comes to the Conjuring movie franchise. By the time the credits rolled, the whole row was empty except for one couple.

At the far end of the row was a man and a woman. Mid-coitus.

I kid you not. The woman was stark naked. Nothing but bare skin against an AMC seat that’s probably absorbed more fluids than the concessions counter soda machine. The man was stretched out on top of her, doing his best impression of a trench coat.  

And here’s the part that really stuck with me: the lights came up, the credits rolled, people turned to leave, and these two didn’t even flinch. Didn’t scramble. Didn’t make a panicked dash for their pants. Nope. The guy was still lying on top of her like a dog that thinks throw pillows are dating apps.

They just kept going.

Normally, I am a fast exit person. My 50-year-old bladder just doesn’t hold the same volume anymore. As soon as the house lights come up, I am out of my seat and sprinting to the exit like Flash Gordon. But last night, I could have peed in my pants; I was not rushing away from this X-rated encore. I lingered, taking my sweet time to fold my blanket, gather my jacket, and do an extra-long scan for any errant garbage, all while keeping one eye on the free live show one row down. You could call it nosy. I prefer being dedicated to the follow-through. I wasn’t leaving until I saw how this circus act wrapped up.

Now, look, I get it. Passion. Heat of the moment. But I couldn’t help thinking, while she lay there marinating in whatever’s been living on those seats since 2003, of the many, many other places they could have chosen. This was the best option they could come up with? They could have chosen anywhere:

Their car. An old, reliable classic: seats that recline, tinted windows, a roof for leverage, and cupholders for hydration. It’s private, convenient, and cheaper than movie tickets. It also doesn’t traumatize the poor high school kid working for minimum wage mopping sticky spilled Icees.

The enormous handicapped restroom stall.  Not romantic, but at least it comes with a door lock and a baby-changing ledge that doubles as a flat surface.

The hotel across the street: Designed for this exact purpose. Fresh towels and sheets! Room service! No sticky floor!

Their own damn house. You know, that place with unlimited time, privacy, showers, and couches not covered in artificial butter flavoring.

Instead, they chose AMC Theater #9, Row C, for $15.50 a ticket.

Honestly, if you’re going to christen a piece of furniture, at least pick one that hasn’t been sneezed on by toddlers during Finding Nemo.

I came for The Conjuring: Last Rites. I left with The Conjugal Rights. And honestly? The scariest part of it all wasn’t the demon on the screen; it was the realization that next weekend, some poor unsuspecting soul will sit in that seat, blissfully unaware of what literally went down.

And yet, I don’t regret going out to see another Conjuring flick. I will take gore, demons, and even grimy theater-seat sex before you strap me into two hours of the overpriced friendship-bracelet karaoke nonsense of Taylor Swift yawns.