![]() In return, I received a series of panicked instructions to not start without him. People we knew-people in their twenties and thirties, few of them with children-had been freaking out about “Coco” in group texts and random conversations, saying things like, “I cried so hard I started choking,” and “I’ve watched it five times this month on airplanes.” “Hey ppl over here getting drunk and watching Coco just fyi,” I texted Andrew, who was still at the office. I assumed that he was being hyperbolic, until a night in April when I invited three friends over to watch “Coco,” all of us first-time viewers with high expectations. ![]() ![]() “You have to go to see ‘Coco,’ ” he croaked. I hadn’t moved from my permanent station behind my computer monitor, a hub for the ongoing erosion of my belief in human good. “What’s going on with you?” I asked, watching him wheel his bike back into the living room. One weekend last fall, my boyfriend, Andrew, whose favorite movies include “Deliverance” and the original “Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” went off to go see the Pixar movie “Coco,” by himself, and came back in a delirium of happy, wistful tears.
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