Despite my fledgling intention to be reasonable, something about him irked me. It had nothing to do with his character. He seemed pleasant, amicable, worldly. He and Esme worked effortlessly together. Their shorthand was obvious. As the casual introduction continued, he had already reorganized her table in a way that put everything within her reach, aligned the first tasks, prepared the tools, and somehow made the space more pristine.

I even felt more clarity of purpose just standing beside him… infuriating.

In loving memory of Jonathan Martin.

May he live on as the best friend in every story.

The doors opened to reveal golden sun pouring in from the vaulted skylight. Its glass had no business being that pristine. You could see the clear sky, and if you squinted just right, it’s partitions disappeared, and you could feel like you were looking directly into heaven. Knowing her, she probably hadn’t replaced the glass, but restored it, meticulously.

The morning light painted the studio in a surreal radiance, bouncing the purest form of every color off the polished wood floors and concrete pillars. The west wall was almost entirely a window overlooking the skyline. The north wall was for raw materials of every kind: linoleum, wood, soft metals, fabrics of nearly every shade, and other materials I couldn’t begin to name. Some were stacked on shelves, others hung in rows or were sectioned off by rolling dividers. I knew from talking to her that some of the materials were rare, while others were proprietary to her process.

On the south wall were rows of nearly every artistic tool you could own. Some I recognized as artistic tools: a thousand paintbrushes, pencils, tools for cutting, carving, and etching. But others seemed like they belonged on a construction site, or at a surgical station, or even in an experimental science lab.

Near the east wall, between three sets of concrete pillars, were 3D printers, presses, and a sleek computer: a little pocket of sci-fi in the middle of a world of analog. Beside that, sectioned off by dirty plexiglass, was the area for the usual tools of wood carving and metalwork: the only “dirty” section of this otherwise unnaturally pristine and orderly sanctuary. Not too far from that was an ink station, and a small space with a rug and two couches.

But at the very center of the room, right underneath the skylight, was what could only be described as the altar of this sanctuary: the main worktable, broad and immovable, surrounded by metal stools. At its center lay a stack of linoleum, and beside that, the beginning sketch of what would become her layered linocut masterpiece.

As full as this space was with tools, it was in no way cold or sterile. It was full of her expression. Finished works, paintings, etchings, and sculptures hung, stood, and were arranged around arched fabric banners of rich color. Plants and greenery were positioned wherever the sun would touch.

I did not feel like I was walking into a dirty warehouse art studio. Walking in felt more like entering the ancient hanging gardens of Babylon. It felt like stepping into the scene of a Persian or Ethiopian myth. Like I said, I didn’t feel like I was on Earth anymore, or at least not a version I was used to.

My breath was gone. All of this was a manifestation, an extension, of her.

I had walked in determined not to let my mind make Esme mythical, but stepping one foot into her space defied my intention.

Before an awkward silence could betray my thoughts, I muttered, “This place is badass…”

But hearing my own tone back in my mind, I still felt like I was giving too much away.

“The cinematographer is going to have a time…”

“I’m sure they will,” she said, still walking ahead toward the central workstation.

Arriving, my eyes fell on the giant sketches laid out on six-by-five-foot sheets of paper, neatly shingled. Her thick, curvilinear linework was mesmerizing. All drawn by a disciplined hand. The curves flowed like a multitude of parallel rivers, streams that carried my transfixed eyes along every weaving line until the full image rendered in my mind and finally let me exhale.

I wondered if her lines had the same effect. But before my thoughts wandered too far, I felt the awkwardness I wanted to avoid. “I’m sorry, these are… sublime.”

She laughed. “It’s not the first time you’ve seen them. We’ve discussed them at length.”

“I know, but it’s different this close. And these are just the sketches!”

“Well,” she said, “the sketches are the easy part…”

She told no lies. Her process of linocut was a current that only rushed forward.

1On a section of linoleum, with the precision of her tools, she followed the topography of her sketches, cutting channels into the material like a deity carving a delicate landscape of elevations and depressions. But the carved surface was an inverse of the intended image. What she cut away would remain untouched by ink. What she left raised would carry it.

The next step was to roll ink across the carved linoleum, then press it onto the final canvas. That would be the first layer. Layer upon layer would follow as the process repeated, each one building from background to foreground, until what began as a badlands of lines became whole.

If even one layer was misshapen, miscut, or misaligned, the entire piece could collapse. Only someone with her level of mastery could complete something like this, and no one but her would attempt it under the pressure of time.

Behind a stack of linoleum, I could see smaller squares, each carved with single or doubled curves. Some complete. Some were abandoned.

I held one up. “Already started?”

She exhaled nervously, picking up another square, one incomplete. “No…” she said, scrutinizing it. “Practice. The sketches are… ambitious. Some of the lines are thinner than what my tools can carve while still maintaining the integrity of the serpentine curves.”

“The line of beauty…”

She grinned, but the kind one gives a toddler for being clever enough to fit the square block into the square hole. “You’ve been reading up on aesthetics.”

“I have to, to keep up with you.” And I guess that was a subconscious attempt to flirt.

“You’ll have to read more than old books on aesthetics to keep up with this goddess,” a smooth masculine voice purred from behind me.

And like an unwelcome breeze rushing into what was already a comfortably cool moment, a man swept past me, folded Esme into an embrace, then gave her a familiar kiss.

The floor of my stomach collapsed to my knees, and I prayed to all the muses that no one could see the blood drain from my face, because it felt like it’s flesh had been replaced by TV static.

“This is Nelm, my studio assistant,” Esme offered.

I wish “studio assistant” had been enough to slow the escalating dosage of adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. The static in my face was rapidly usurped with hives, and my thumping heart beat primed for fight or flight. The curse of testosterone and its involuntary entitlements.

He reached out his hand, and the empty feeling in my gut was replaced with a caged roar for him to go away. He’s ruining everything.

What was he ruining? Nothing. If this were an animalistic territorial dispute, Esme was the apex, and this was her territory. And apparently his.

Logic prevailed, as it always does, because I’m a civilized man in a suit. And I was here for work. I shook his hand. “It is very nice to meet you, Nelms.”

I ignored my instinct to check the firmness of his handshake. That’s for the corporate Hunger Games. (It was soft, though.)

“Just Nelm…” he politely replied.

“Just Nelm. My apologies.” I returned.

“This is the ad exec I was telling you about,” Esme added.

“Ah,” he said, “the aspiring artist. She’s told me so much about you…”

Despite my fledgling intention to be reasonable, something about him irked me. It had nothing to do with his character. He seemed pleasant, amicable, worldly. And it was clear he and Esme worked effortlessly together. Their shorthand was obvious. As the casual introduction continued, he had already reorganized her table in a way that put everything within her reach, aligned the first tasks, prepared the tools, and somehow made the space even more pristine.

I felt more clarity of purpose just standing beside him… infuriating.

They were paired winds, whirling around me.

What bothered me was that when he entered the room, I was immediately outnumbered. I was a suit among the two artists. Their styles were even complementary. He was almost exactly my height, his complexion a dozen elegant shades darker, his hair styled into a messy afro, golden nose rings, diamond ear piercings. We seemed equally physically fit, but he was far less modest about it. His outfit was elite alt-Black punk, fitted, shredded, and sagging in the most tailored fashion. The hater in me wanted to call him a discount Duckwrth, but the truth was, “Just Nelm” might actually be cooler.

And here I was, the uncool; outnumbered. And “Nelms” was exactly what I imagined as her type.

A rustling and shuffling of many feet in the distance, coming up the stairs, kept me from spiraling. Reinforcements.

I’d never tell him this, but I wished Tom was among them. A confidant would have been great right now. But knowing Tom, he would see exactly what was going on and try his best to make me crack. Alas, it was just the production crew.

And for a brief moment, as awful as it sounds, I gained some level of power in a space where I felt completely vulnerable. Every member of the crew was handpicked. The best on my roster, and they knew I had their respect.

“Where do you want us to set up, boss?” asked the gaffer, sweating, the heaviest of Pelican cases in tow. In that moment, I caught myself before ego made me make an ass of myself.

“Actually, this is… Nelm. He’s Esme’s right hand. He’ll know better than me, and he’ll be your go-to so Esme can lock in.”

And with the last syllable of the last word, I relinquished whatever usefulness I had in the room. So it had to be.

“As we aren’t recording sound, I like to work with music,” Esme instructed, and the crew, of course, welcomed it.

Nelm put on a track.

A warm, distorted riff and rhythmic beat thrummed through the air, charging it with more creative force. The realness of life was replaced by the fantasy of a montage. It was driving, exhilarating.

But I fell back. Entirely outnumbered, I watched the room full of artists go to work.

My mind went numb, sinking under dissociated layers of suffocating envy. Beyond that of losing the fleeting attention of Esme, I once again felt like a man apart. This was all their native country, and they all came alive in it, choreographed by its prince, “Just Nelm,” and its empress, Esme, wielding all of them with divine craft.

I could not believe I was feeling something that had once been familiar, something I thought had long been resolved. A feeling I dared not name, because naming it might beckon it back with force.

So, as I did long ago, I simply let go. Let myself reform. I felt the solidness of the hard soles of my polished loafers against the wood floor. I let myself feel the refined fabric of the suit hang, and my body rested against the fitted tightness of my undershirt. Not in the sense of hiding behind a constructed shell. This was me, or at least what I had genuinely become.

And by now, I had come to like me. It unfortunately was just not… enough.

“That’s that bullshit,” Tom fired, eyes glaring at me from over a glass of scotch. “Not enough? The hell are you talking about?”

“Okay, Tom, here’s me showing my friend my interior,” I laughed, genuinely amused at his consistency of self. It didn’t matter what I told him. Tom was gonna be Tom. I could tell him my dad died, and he’d still say something uncouth, which he actually had. He was the only one who got me to laugh, because he knew laughing would make the other emotions break.

But damn… sometimes…

“Guy, I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it a thousand times. I’m your friend, not your therapist. But I will send you to one.”

“Or be the reason I need one.”

He chuckled and took a sip. I waved for the bartender to refill my Coke.

“That is some bullshit, though,” he pressed. “And you should know better. ‘Not enough’ is the psychology we weaponize to make people buy things. And you know that.”

“Land that plane… what are you talking about?”

“Something in you won’t feel fulfilled until you capture a girl like her. It’s a crack in your armor.”

I, of course, immediately disagreed….

…to be continued.

I have greater ambitions for the story, but this short film represents one of its quietest, most intimate moments: a conversation between two unwilling servants of time and space, with a window into a greater struggle. A conversation between optimism and nihilism, hope and despair.

I finished this short and loved it so much. After I made a few attempts to produce it and realized it was just unwieldy, with a budget that, again, dipped into period filmmaking, I had to put it in a drawer.

But occasionally, when I stood close to the drawer, I could still hear Tèo and Mina speak.

There’s something in it that I love. Words worth sharing. So instead of letting it sit in a drawer, I’ve decided to share it with you.

The moment of this story happens sometime today. It probably happens nearby, time and space just tucked it away right outside your view. You weren’t supposed to see it. It could break things if you did.

But when you hear them speak, they don’t speak like today. They’re both people outside of their proper time.

One speaks with the poetic charm of a young man from the South, born closer to the 1890s than the 1990s. His words drift toward rhythm and metaphor. That’s why I like him.

The other speaks with the harshness of the streets, the underbelly of the Gilded Age. She knows no poetry, only watchful words that determine whether she lives or dies in the streets of an overcrowded, polluted immigrant city.

With that, I present to you “The Slip.”

THE SLIP

IN BLACK

MINA (V.O.) | Alone. Slip. Timefall.

There’s eerie roll of thunder.

SUPER: TIMEFALL - PRESENT DAY

EXT. PARK BENCH - DAY

TÈO looks up, smiling as if he understands something the sky is about to say. Overhead, a dome of grey clouds begins to split, as unnaturally slow lightning carves a deliberate incision of eerie light, threading into the atmosphere like a seam coming undone.

The sound is otherworldly—like thunder broken into unnatural fragments, each piece stretched and displaced across time.

Low tones bloom in stuttering intervals, deep pulses ripple beneath them. Higher cracks flicker through the air like a melody barely held together, flavoring the echo with something alien and unresolved.

TÈO | She’s speakin’ again...isn’t it something?

MINA (O.S.) | It won’t be long. It’ll be me. I know it.

Téo, is a sharp, debonair, charismatic, young black man in his early thirties. Something about his poise, or his way of speech, gives away that he’s an old soul- a man out of time. Maybe it’s the old dog-tag, a relic from a bygone era, hanging around his neck.

TÈO | Certain it’ll be you? Because the dream?

MINA, a dirty blonde in her late twenties, sits furled on the park bench. She too feels like a woman out of time—haunted, adrift. Her clothes hang off her like afterthoughts: mismatched hand-me-downs, grabbed in haste from a 1970s thrift rack.

MINA | I know you’ll try to convince me of something that I won’t believe.

TÈO | Funny, ‘cause I know you will.

MINA | Once I hear the thunder, the count starts. (beat) Has started. The cycle always repeats. Alone. Slip. Timefall. Doesn’t matter what I say. What I feel. What I want. Or what you want.

(beat) Slip.

TÈO | And you hate slipping?

MINA | I’m beyond hate. I don’t feel anything anymore. It just happens. Over and over.

TÈO (baffled) | But It’s extraordinary.

MINA (equally baffled) | extraordinary?

TÈO | It’s a backway through the universe. Most folks never even notice it—too busy watching the road ahead. But we? We slip through it. Like a needle through a quilt. Time, space, self... none of it holds. And in here...Time signs in cursive.

MINA | We don’t walk. We’re stolen. Snatched before we can start to rest. None of it’s ours. Not the time. Not the place.

(beat) This existence is insufferable. Time grinds and doesn’t know we’re under it. It don’t stop.

TÈO | I don’t understand how you can call it insufferable. This is a gift. The Slip pulled us out of the teeth of time. No soul alive—past or future—will ever see what we’ve seen. We come from different chapters in time’s almanac… and still, somehow, me and you sitting in the same paragraph.

MINA | A gift. (beat) When you first saw me, you called me - Collette.

Tèo stiffens.

MINA | You tapped me on the shoulder, and called me, Collette. Do you even remember her face now?

TÈO (V.O.) | Collette! Tu vas me dépasser!

EXT. FRANCE - STREET - DAY

FLASHBACK: Tèo presses through an energetic crowded street in France – 1918 – he proudly wears the standard-issue army uniform of the 369th Infantry. He’s a Harlem Hellfighter.

Ahead of him, Collette playfully pushes through the excited mass. Fireworks POP, illuminating the celebrating French streets with color – the war was over.

COLLETTE (flirtatious) | Alors peut-être que tu devrais courir plus vite, Theodore.

She turns - but her face falls out of focus...Another firework cracks -- ENDING THE FLASHBACK

EXT. PARK BENCH - CONTINUOUS

More alien thunder rolls. Tèo doesn’t speak.

MINA | You been gone from her for so long that you can’t even recognize her face in your own mind can you? Is that a gift?

His expression leans away...(a beat)

MINA (relenting) | In the Slip, I fall. No weight, no place—just tumblin’ through nothin’. I’ve seen worlds start and rot. Over and over. The end don’t mean anything. Just more misery. And you’ve seen it too. You know how it ends.

A shared beat.

MINA | Then I fall again. Some new time. New streets. Waitin’ to get ripped away all over again. From whatever I just started to know. Whoever I might’ve started to love. Whatever I wanted. (beat) At first, I don’t even know where I am.

EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT

FLASHBACK: Her hand smacks against grimy brick, as she feebly tries to brace herself against the side of a building. Mina is confused, disoriented, nauseous. She stumbles - she pukes.

MINA (V.O.) | I don’t even remember my name. And I’m sick. Always sick. Every damn time.

She doesn’t recognize the disheveled clothes she’s in. There’s something very 1950’s about them, and unfit to her poise.

At the end of the alley, a bunch of (actual) hippies who, only moments ago, were listening to music by their van, stare at her in disbelief.

MINA (V.O.) | The air don’t feel right. Feels like the whole place is watchin’ me. I don’t belong there, and the world knows it.

She quickly stumbles in the opposite direction. END FLASHBACK

EXT. PARK BENCH - CONTINUOUS

Mina’s eye’s are still there.

MINA | I don’t know the day, or the hour, or where I’ll land—or when it’ll happen again. The only thing I feel is the instinct to run... to get away, before whatever stole me does it again. Takes hours to remember my name. Days to remember why. And when I do, I wish I hadn’t.

(beat) Until then, I wander whatever time I’m in. I exist in it, but I ain’t part of it. Just pulled toward somethin’ I can’t stop. Glass-pressed against the world.

Wantin’ what I can’t have. Waitin’ to be taken. Again. Waitin’ for it all to repeat.

(soft) Alone. Slip. Timefall.

(beat) There’s no purpose. No reason. The cycle’s just... vanity.

TÈO | Vanity of vanities...

(a beat) It’s not a curse. Not for me. I was already glass-pressed against the world—segregated, invisible. But now I trespass freely through time’s touring carnival. Slippin’ behind the big tents. Goin’ where I’m not supposed to go.

Time took the sign down. Jim don’t mean nothin’ to me here. And now... I get to watch. Every show we pass through whispers a little truth

MINA | Call it a carnival if it helps. But that don’t make it real. This ain’t no carnival—there’s nothing to learn. It just... happened.

TÈO | No,

He pulls a journal from his back pocket. It’s old, so old it’s practically antique. Opening it he searches the pages filled with advanced mathematic formulas, and obscure terms.

TÈO | The cosmic liminal hollow...That space in-between— the backway folded between time’s seams.

Mina becomes aggressively disinterested, this is rambling.

TÈO (break) | This is not the first time we’ve met. I called you Collette then too.

MINA | What are you talking about?

TÈO | We’ve met in my past, your future.

MINA | I’ve never met anyone like us before you. And I didn’t meet you until a couple of days ago.

TÈO | I’ve met others. And you... more than a few. And you’ll meet me again. No doubt.

MINA | I don’t know that.

TÈO | I do. I do know you.

MINA | You don’t know the first fucking thing about me.

TÈO | I know you were pulled outta the Bronx. 1890s. You were just a kid—an orphan. A worker. Scrappin’ to stay fed.

Mina says no words.

FLASHBACK: EXT. BRICK STACK HOUSE – 1887 – DAY

She stands in front of a soot-stained tenement, dressed in hand-me-down trousers, coat too big, cap pulled low. She’s made herself boyish—anonymous. Safer that way.

Nearby, a scuffle breaks out between barefoot kids and a vendor. Mina runs to it, not away. Fists already clenched.

TÈO (V.O.) | I know you dressed as a boy, so men would leave you be. You mamma told you to before she sent you out.

A low rumble rolls in—familiar and unnatural.

TÈO (V.O.) | I know you don’t know how your daddy died, but you know how your mama did...

END FLASHBACK.

She shutters...

TÈO (with urgency) | The clock is running dry. There are rules to this. Patterns. You think it’s random ‘cause it hurts— but hurt don’t mean there’s no design. There’s a shape to it. Even if we can’t see it yet.

He shows her the book, but it’s a foreign language, she shoves it away.

MINA | You’re seeing what you want to see. We fell in a ditch and now we’re stuck. That’s all there is to it.

TÈO | The world don’t move like that. Nothin’ this strange just... happens.

MINA | This ain’t strange. You just ain’t seen how cruel folks can get. How we turn on each other when all we got is ourselves.

TÈO | Miss. I’ve seen war. A war after your time. (looking at the brown skin of his hand) And I certainly don’t need to be schooled on human cruelty...

MINA | You talk like you’ve got the whole goddamn map.

TÈO (beat) | No. But I have parts...Can you bend time yet?

Her silence says everything.

TÈO | How far back can you go? Minutes? Hours? (beat) You know what I’m askin’

MINA | How do you know about that?

TÈO | Show me.

Apprehensive, but trying not to show it, Mina flicks her hand—barely.

Time folds in reverse, shifting like a lenticular illusion—moments replaying with eerie precision.

TÈO (time reversed to a former position) | This is not the first time we’ve me- ah...

He ticks his fingers like a metronome, counting down to another sharp rumble in the sky. Tik...tik...tik...Boom.

Then—he freezes. Eyes flicking like he’s reading time in reverse

MINA | Are you okay?

TÈO | Yes...I can recall the altered timelines now. (beat) Since we met—has yours gotten stronger?

MINA | Only slightly.

TÈO | By how much?

MINA | Only by a second or two. Doesn’t matter.

TÈO (excited) | It does! All of it does. It will get stronger!

MINA | How do you know?

TÈO | Seen it.

He sits beside her, manically scratching new symbols on the last page of his book.

TÈO | That’s another variable accounted for.

MINA | Why does any of this matter?

TÈO | Told you. The world don’t run on pain alone. There are rules.

MINA | Rules to WHAT? This is just your COPE. You’re looking for patterns to make sense of something absurd.

TÈO (still working) | apophenia.

MINA | What?

TÈO (still scribbling) | The tendency to perceive connections, patterns, or meaning in random or meaningless data. This is not that.

MINA | Yes it is. Humanity itself is an accident. And in all your slips, you haven’t figured that out? We’re an anomaly. We shouldn’t even be here.

(beat) That’s the only meaning I got from the slip. I’m a cosmic accident, stuck in a cosmic accident— waitin’ to die. And I’ve made peace with that.

She closes his book.

MINA | I get it. You lost her, torn away. Now you’re still hurt, lookin’ for a reason for it. But all it’s done… is leave you scribblin’ in a book like a madman.(beat) And that makes me sad for you.

TÈO | And how’s your accidentalism treatin’ you? Waitin’ to die don’t sound like any kind of peace to me. And you must be rationin’ your happiness.

MINA | You’re a smart man. So we both know that’s not a rational answer.

TÈO | Not an answer. It’s a question.

The rumbling begins again, low, but sustained, surrounding them, approaching them.

TÈO | I suppose you don’t have to believe me. Not this second, anyway.

MINA | What’s the point?! Even if you were right—and there is some fucked-up design behind all this— I wouldn’t care. Because whatever it is… it’s cruel. My life is misery.

TÈO | It saved you from misery. It pulled you right outta hell—right when you needed it to

MINA | How dare you!

TÈO | I know what was happening when it took you. You told me...

(There’s a powerful beat) The conflicted intensity in her eyes almost tell her secret...

TÈO | I wish above all things you’d open your mind. You drift through time and space—blind to wonder, un-inquisitive, waitin’ for death. If there are patterns, you wouldn’t see ’em. If there’s purpose… your back’s to it.

MINA | Why do you fucking care?

TÈO | It’s not all misery.

Something shifts in his eyes. He doesn’t say it. But he’s thinking about her—about them.

MINA (realizing) | What happened when we met? Did we...

For a moment, the only sound that can be heard is the portentous brooding low rumble in the sky. The rumble gives way to an eerie hollow wind resonating in low tones through the air— even closer, like it’s nearly encased them.

It’s menacing They both know it will come soon.

TÈO (with resolve) | If I ever doubted before, I don’t now. I know there’s purpose— because you’re here. This is a convergence. Our meeting… makes a closed loop. This is where things start to change.

The rumble deepens—low, dark, and close. It vibrates the air around them, pressing into their ears. It’s no longer approaching. It’s here. Imminent. Inevitable. Shaking.

MINA (trembling, girlish) | I can’t take any more of this... I’m scared. I just want to be left alone.

TÈO (comforting) | When you get here...

He rolls up his sleeve. Dates—hundreds of them—inked from wrist to elbow, scattered and stacked like a broken calendar

MINA (stunned) | Oh my God...how many times have you slipped?

He doesn’t reply. His finger taps on one of the dates:

10-29-1929

TÈO | It’ll be a cold night in Oklahoma. Follow the sound of jazz to the old mansion on the hill. I’ll be hosting a secret ball. (grand) A ball at the end of the world!

When you see me— after I call you Collette —answer:

“Maybe you should run faster.” I’ll know what that means…Then give this back to me.

She looks down, to the the old journal Tèo placed in her hands.

TÈO (smug) | Your certainty is your misery.

A hollow, unnatural shifting, crack of thunder breaks the air, as if the tectonic plates of time sheared against each other. Mina looks up at the sky, awaiting her fate.

TÈO | ...slip.

She winces ready to slip…but looks back in shock, Tèo is gone.

CUT TO BLACK.

He plopped down in the seat beside me, crossed his legs, folded his arms, spun his chair, leaned in... insufferably, and continued, “I promise you, you’re probably one of a thousand men who tried to make her into the manic pixie here to save them from their oh-so-dreary lives... she’ll skewer you.”

I can’t lie, I fell into the hole...

It’s that kind of cringe infatuation stage you’re supposed to grow out of. But I feel like the temptation of social media stunts that.

It had been a few weeks since that second meeting with her and Tom. Esme had begun her prep work on the project. I was the facilitator, logistics, the boring stuff. I made sure she had what she needed. Tom made sure the client was getting what they wanted and that the budget was steady. I found the crew that would set up to capture her three-month-long process.

We had meetings, virtually. They became the highlights of my office days, especially as my office experience was feeling more and more mundane, save for the fact that somehow the email of me as an alt-punk got around the office. I would find the occasional cutout of me that someone printed and hung by the espresso machine. It was all in good fun... allegedly.

But the virtual meetings with Esme were... something I looked forward to. We’d occasionally wander away from conversations about logistics and into conversations about art. They pulled up things in me, ideas, that I’d forgotten about. Her imagination had no barriers... mine was stunted by the rules of advertising... ideas occurred to her that I knew would have occurred to me, if I hadn’t... well... what’s done is done...

“You’re way too old for a manic pixie dream girl,” Tom blurted over my shoulder just as I finished a call with her.

“She is neither manic nor a pixie. As a matter of fact, she has her shit firmly together...”

“She has her sh... brother, that’s why I write the copy, by the way,” Tom interjected. Really, his interns wrote the copy, but I digress...

“Whatever storming mania she has,” I continued, “she wields it...” and I was again interrupted, this time by the long, exasperated hiss of an exaggerated sigh from Tom.

“What?” I fired.

“Aside from your affinity for speaking in bad metaphors, I know she’s not a manic pixie. And that’s why I’m telling you, you’re too old to be looking for a manic pixie to...” And he dramatically droned this part, “...awaken your inner artist and free you from a life of responsibility and the mundane, and the rewards of capitalism.” He plopped down in the seat beside me, crossed his legs, folded his arms, spun his chair, leaned in... insufferably, and continued, “I promise you, you’re probably one of a thousand men who tried to make her into the manic pixie here to save them from their oh-so-dreary lives... she’ll skewer you.”

“Can’t you just let me soak in delusion for a while?” I snapped, closing my laptop.

“No. That’s for the unwashed masses... we’re ad men, we sell delusion. We don’t get to partake.”

“I do hate you, Tom.”

“Nah...” He whipped his chair around, stood, and confidently sauntered off. “You love me, bro...”

Regardless, that night, when I unlocked my phone, I fell into the inevitable hole that was her social media. I had already studied every image on her professional page for professional reasons. She had mastered every medium of drawing and etching, elevating both crafts by her style. I was genuinely mesmerized... me and her three million followers. She was the artistic phenom the world needed to remind it of the value of art.

But in one of her many curated posts, she tagged her personal social. And that night... I couldn’t help but go there. And... I entered another world entirely. Hers. Just as curated and unique as her art. She, the woman, had taste, culture... it seemed like all the people around her were the once-uncool kids who just built their own vibe, one totally elevated... it made me wonder if, had my life been different, I would be in that space too.

Suddenly, the tie around my neck felt like a hand pressing against my jugular. I yanked it off, feeling ridiculous. Why am I wearing a tie in my own home?

It was getting late anyway. I looked out the window of my sterile Chicago penthouse. The skyline was falling asleep. I had to be up early... Tomorrow we film in her space...

A text woke me up. It was 5:30 a.m.

When you get here, the Cobalt Door, not the teal door.

My first alarm didn’t go off for another hour and a half, not to mention the real one that would go off fifteen minutes later. Groggy, feeling like the dream I’d just forgotten was merging into a brand-new one, eyes squinting, I tried to figure out what the hell I was reading. A riddle?

“What cobalt door?” I asked the empty pillow by my head...

Brain still booting, I blearily responded with a question mark.

?

I got back an image of a cobalt door, painted across in metallic black, with the image of a phoenix before it set itself ablaze... that’s Esme’s tattoo, or at least an iteration of it. It’s Esme...

I sent: Thanks, I didn’t realize that was you.

You still in bed?

No. Grabbing a coffee.

Okay... This is happening today, right?

For sure, I had 7 a.m. on the calendar.

Yep... unfortunately. I prefer earlier.

I can be earlier. When will you be there?

I’m already here.

I’ll hurry there. Cobalt door.

K. Cobalt door.

“K...” I sensed a bit of contempt in that. I sat up, tossing off the blanket. And just out of sheer curiosity, I went to the app and viewed her stories, a gym selfie posted at 4 a.m. with the hashtag #discipline.

I think of myself as a disciplined person, but she is just on another level.

Shuffling through the hanging clothes in my closet, I felt the slightest sense of anxiety creep in. What the hell should I wear? And that’s not a thought that’s seriously crossed my mind since the first party I ever went to in college, which was also the first party I’d ever been to at all.

For reference, I did NOT choose the right thing. It was NOT a great time. It wasn’t long after that that I decided to stick with what I knew, suits, and stopped going to those kinds of parties. The better the fit of the suit, the more comfortable I felt.

And so, dodging that very odd sense of anxiety, I reached for my favorite: a single-breasted, slim-fit suit in steel blue, the pants gently pleated in just the right place, cut to fit. A collarless white button-up, no tie, a mahogany-strapped watch, belt, and hard loafers. A suit, but not too much suit. Can’t fail...

I brushed, showered, sharpened my thin beard with the electric razor, spritzed on some expensive smell-good, and after making sure all my hairs were in place, being blessed to only rarely have to use a durag, I checked the mirror. Can’t fail... anxiety calmed... although what I might be failing, and why I had been revisited by such juvenile anxiety, I didn’t know.

The teal door and the cobalt door were nearly side by side, separated by two buildings so close together they may as well have been conjoined. The building with the teal door was modern, all sleek architecture and ultra-clean lines, clearly very new. The building with the cobalt door was clearly from a decades-old Chicago. It would have been an eyesore if not for its character, art embedded into it, turning what would be areas of decay into their own piece. Even the phoenix on the door was etched to pattern the chipped, weathered material beneath it. I tilted my head, and the metallic black of the dark bird caught the light of the rising sun. A cloud moved, revealing golden light that transformed the creature into its phoenix form.

This... all of this, was Esme’s work.

Ironically, it made the modern building beside it seem like the horrendous eyesore.

I pressed the call button to the left of the door, and after a moment, after the sound of feet on stairs, Esme opened it. When the golden light lit her brown eyes and dark curls... well, to restart my heart, I closed my lips and took a slow, focused internal breath... because apparently I had also forgotten to breathe.

“You coming up?” she asked...

“Yeah.” Catching myself, I added, “Just admiring the, ummm... the phoenix rises with the dawn?”

She let a subtle smile creep at the corner of her black-painted lip. I grinned back, as subtle as I could manage.

“Cool, right?”

“Very cool,” I replied, a little too breathy.

Turning for me to follow, she shot back, “If you had been any later, you would have missed it.”

...I was early. It was just after 6:30 a.m...

My hard loafers obnoxiously clamped and crunched on the debris on the old mill steps as I ascended the spiraling staircase leading to Esme’s domain. Her steps were impossibly soundless even though she was wearing leather stiletto ankle boots.

This woman existed impossibly...

That’s when I remembered, as a shaft of new sunlight touched her from the one window in the narrow ascent, “You’re too old for the manic pixie dream girl.”Thanks, Tom...

Her heels did make sounds. They clamped and crunched, although not as obnoxiously, just like mine. My perception of her was slipping into myth. And I had to remember that I was a myth-maker... I didn’t get to be delusional...

I was resolute in that until she pushed open the industrial sliding door, revealing her art studio... we clearly weren’t on earth anymore...

…And If you’re not, I promise I’ll get back to something moody, dystopian, or fantastical soon…

“How long have you been single?!” he asked, poorly masking the acrid toxin of concern and pity laced on the edge of his words.

I can’t help but chuckle. I answer…he makes a joke about how someone could’ve had a whole grown child, birth to college, in that time frame. It’s an exaggeration…sort of.

I laugh. The joke is genuinely funny, this guy used to be a bona fide traveling LA comedian. He’s good. And by now…I don’t really care (I say to myself.)

I know where the joke is coming from. Let’s just say his response to my…experience…lives in direct contrast to his dating approach. I’ve never been a…ummm…serial dater. One man’s dating philosophy might be centered around, let’s say………“quantity.” Mine has been based on something else entirely. I tend to know what I want ( and not just with relationships), and I generally feel no anxiety waiting for it if I have to…although lately, there’s been a creeping sense of it. I’m not here to judge life choices, because Lord knows I know the downside of mine. Who knows which one will pan out better? Anyway…

After a few more quips, he headed out of the coffee shop. I opened my Google Doc and finished part one of “Not Your Type’s Type.”

Love will come when it does. And when it does, I wonder if I’ll be too occupied to write any more about it.

In the meantime, writing about it is actually very fun and cathartic…and a little fulfilling. I often hear that it’s interesting to read about how a guy (and in the context of culture, a “1Black guy”) thinks about “love” or romance…or whatever. How we really think when we’re not performing. I’m glad to add a little perspective to the noise.

With that said, on this Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided to repost a subscriber favorite…

You know, there’s a little truth to every story, and if you know me, you’ll know the truth about this one. ;)

And because I need to boost the stats, here’s my latest, “Not Your Type’s Type”

While we’re at it, here’s some Olivia Dean, 2026’s queen of the love song…(Because of course I’m madly in love with Olivia. Aren’t we all?)

Happy Valentine’s Day, readers!

“What the hell does that mean?” I snorted, almost chorting out my chai.

“I see how you get when she’s around.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Tom.”

He checks his watch. Ten minutes before we have to get back to the office. “Okay, let’s play. Esme, cornball. I’m talking about Esme.”

“I’m not any type of way—”

“Right, you’re professional or whatever. No one else can see past your phony stoicism, but I can. You’re all over her.”

“You’re seeing things, brother.” At this point I’m just lying to bother Tom for being in my business. He’s always in my business, has been since high school.

“Never in my life have you ever brought me a…” He squints. “What was that shit? An Iced Jasmine Smoke Tea with Blood Orange, Juniper, and Black Salt.”

“Do you want that? I’ll order you one right now.”

“HELL no. You’ve just never brought me anything. Never even offered.”

“I’m just being courteous to the contractor…”

He bursts into laughter… again, way too loud, even for this loud, jam-packed coffeeshop. “Contractor?! Oh okay, you’re not her type. You’re never their type.”

Now that’s a phrase that’s always bothered the hell out of me. A seemingly objective statement that feels more like shade than an assessment.

“And what does that mean?” I repeated, with a tone that was really asking, are you calling me ugly or something?

“We’re ad men!” he fired back, as if that statement alone were sufficient enough of an answer.

“Yes, that is our job.”

“Look at us. We’re men in suits who spend most of our time in Chicago or New York high-rises, arguing with old white men about A/B tests, demographic analysis, click-through rates, or why blackface in an ad is still probably a bad idea in any year that starts with a 20.”

“And so?”

“And she’s an artist.”

“I’m an artist!”

He checks his watch again. “See, that’s your problem. No, you’re not.”

And that line is an insult. “Yes, I am—”

“We started as artists, but we haven’t been artists in a decade. We enlist the services of artists.”

At this point I’m mortified, not because he’s wrong, but because I know where he’s going. Tom had a way of pointing out inconvenient truths at the most inconvenient time. “We stopped being artists as soon as we wiffed in the stale air of the C-suite. Don’t get me wrong, you absolutely still have a creative mind, and you know how to speak the unfathomable language of artist types. But you’re not the man you think you are.”

“I’m an artist at heart…”

“What’s the last thing you made?”

My mind reaches for anything and only finds the sinking, nauseating void of a chasm in my gut as I realize it.
“A spreadsheet.” He spits it out. “The last thing you made was a very colorful spreadsheet.”

I laughed, awkwardly, from this forced public confrontation with the dread in front of me. My tailored suit and hardened loafers suddenly felt more like a coffin than the suit of armor I felt I put on this morning.

“I think you watched too many episodes of Mad Men,” I deflected.

“And you didn’t love the show?” he indicts.

“Okay, so she’s an artist, and I—”

“I’ll spell it out for you—”

“No, that’s oka—”

“Nah, let me just say this now, since you’re being so obtuse, before you go impale yourself chasing after this unicorn. She is an artist, and I’m not just talking about a profession. I’m talking about her whole way of being. She’s rebellious. You can see that in how she dresses. She knows full well she’s walking into an office with C-suite stiffs, and I promise you she picks out every layer of her fit to throw up her middle finger. What is her aesthetic? Goth?”

“Punk,” I shot out, realizing all too late it was a trap.

“Punk. Right. And you’re the epitome of anti-punk. And the idea of you being anything but what you are is more impossible than mass moving at light speed. I mean… weren’t you raised Mormon or something?” He says it, poking at something he knows but we don’t talk about. I know he’s not being a dick. He’s just pricking my soft spot so I guard it before I impale myself.

“No, I was not raised Mormon.” Checking him.

“Yeah, well, it was close enough. Maybe at one point you could have been what she is. But we both know you had to become something else.”

His eyes check me back, kindly.

“And I’m not saying what you are is bad. You’re brilliant, sharp, dapper. Listen, I’m proud you’re my friend, seriously. But she walks into a room like gravity doesn’t apply to her, and you are gravity.”

“I just don’t believe the world works that way. Opposites attract, right?”

“Oh no,” mimicking pity, “…you’re applying copy-logic to real life. I would say that’s adorable if we weren’t ad men.”

“Whatever, Roger Sterling.”

He laughs, gives me a hard slap on the shoulder. “You’ll be okay, bud. We gotta roll. Don’t you enjoy our coffee-for-lunch chats? Me too.”

Arms and legs crossed, I lean against the plexiglass window wall of the tertiary boardroom, staring at this cup of dark orange beverage that couldn’t be any more in opposition to the silvery-blush drab of this “tertiary boardroom.” At least we got the one with windows… I arranged it because I know artists hate the cubicle feeling… I think…

Tom sits at the head of the table, buried in his laptop, suspiciously quiet about Esme’s lateness. I know I’ll hear words about it later.

Tom’s eyes shoot up, playfully incredulous, pointing behind me.

The first thing I see is skin through a black mesh top, and I swear I hear the driving, crunchy chords of an indie alt-punk rock band playing like the crash montage of the entrance scene where “the” girl walks into the grunge back-alley club… one black spiked stiletto sandal at a time… in male-gaze Zack Snyder slow motion.

A tight black leather bandeau wraps her bust beneath the mesh, the mesh which I realize catches gold under the right light.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the mesh in her top was bespoke material she made herself, along with the unique leather in her pleated pants, jeweled down the seams with black diamonds.

A long tattoo of a phoenix covers her shoulder, its exaggerated tail wrapping down her arm. I can tell from its unique art style that she drew every detail herself. It’s that art style that got her the gig. Like her outfit, it’s so specific that it’s hard for even AI to steal it. Every line could only be drawn by her hand, intentional imperfection culminating in an image that’s perfect…

Her head is turned away, so instead of her face, I see big, voluptuous black curly hair, a stark difference from the overdone “clean girl” aesthetic adopted by every other woman on this floor.

I tap on the window. She turns. Slender face. Full-beat makeup betraying the skill of an expert MUA. Two gold piercings above her eyebrows. Bold black-and-gold eyeliner drawn around her mahogany eyes that, for a brief second, make my face go numb before prickling back to life.

Catching myself, I point to her drink on the boardroom table…

Tom blurts a subtle laugh.

“What’s funny, Tom?” I snap.

My eyes nonchalantly track Esme as she comes around to enter, grateful she couldn’t hear him through the glass.

“Nothing,” he says, the corners of his mouth furled mischievously. “Remind me to send you an email…”

“It’s nice to see you, Esme…” I redirect.

“Sorry about my lateness. The train was a little behind.”

“No worries,” presenting her the drink. “I remembered from our first meeting…”

“I can see that,” she says politely, accepting.

“And you remember Tom—” I shoot out, stopping his chuckle before it even escapes his breath.

“Of course. Well, as I’m late, I’m ready to get right to the designs.” And with her iPad, she takes over the mounted screen and, effectively, the meeting…

Tom smiles, somewhat dumbfounded, as she’s choked his window to assert his “alpha-type” personality. She most certainly remembered Tom.

I can’t help but smirk.

An hour later, she’s taken us through every panel of her brief, her breakdown as meticulous as the strokes of her drawing style, in such efficient time that even though she was late, the meeting ended early. It made me aware that she wasn’t accidentally late; she knew exactly how much time she intended to spend in this room.

I was in awe.

Tom had no notes. Neither did I.

“Impeccable. You nailed their intention… I don’t think I have any adjustments.”

“Thank you.” She nods. “I know my shit, man,” she replies with very charmed confidence. She does know her shit. It’s not even arrogance.

“So what are next steps?” Her eyes move directly to Tom, in a way that remembers not to totally invalidate his presence, threading that line between authority and not completely stamping out whatever male ego survived her aura. Again, I want to smirk.

I know Tom is cool. I also know he gets it now, why I was immediately enthralled.

“Next steps, we get client approval, which I’m sure won’t be a problem. Once they do, then as you’re aware, they’re very concerned with proving authenticity as part of the brand rollout.”

“Right, no accusations of AI… which I respect. So how do we arrange the process time-lapses?”

Hiding that smirk under his eyes, Tom points to me. “He’s the creative lead on this and will arrange producing vidocs.” He stands, gathering his things. “I’m sure you two will have fun with the creative for that. He is an incredible aspiring artist.”

Fortunately, my poker face is immaculate, so I’m unmoved by his attempt to rattle me.

“Oh, is he?”

Tom continues out, but not before his hand lands on my shoulder. “Don’t forget to check your email…”

I turn back to Esme. “Well, Esme, I guess the first question is, for the vidoc, do you want us to set up a workspace for you here, or…”

“Oh no… we can set up in my space.”

We sit down to hash out some details. Casually, I check Tom’s email on my phone, and my poker face almost cracks.

With the help of AI, he, in his infinite maturity, had taken it upon himself to build a character board of me, in full alt-black-punk.

I close my phone rapidly.

I popped open a social app to distract my mind from this terrible seat—first mistake. The first video that shows up: “Men don’t yearn anymore.

I was in the air by the window seat. I hate the window seat. I had finally gotten my phone to connect to the garbage airline wifi that I paid too much for. I had another five hours before I landed somewhere in LA… I don’t even really know where my agent sent me. A soundstage somewhere to film something. Honestly, I blocked the details out. This is a favor I owed my agent. My schedule is flooded and I’ve been in a daze. I’m just in go mode. I’ll remember what I’m doing when I land.

The wifi… I popped open a social app to distract my mind from this terrible seat—first mistake. The first video that shows up: “Men don’t yearn anymore.”

Nope. I closed it immediately and reminded myself I need to reset my social media algorithm, because I’ve opted out of the toxic anti-(insert whatever is your opposing gender) gender war.

Unfortunately, I caught enough of it to hear, “Men don’t yearn anymore. Black men don’t yearn…” blah blah… something shrill. I’m sure what followed would have been some sort of red-pill nonsense in response. I’m a grown ass man, that mess is for kids, the unemployed, and the chronically online.

But still, like an earworm from a terrible pop song—

oh… yeah, that’s what I was on my way to shoot… a music video for a terrible pop song with an artist caught in a bad contract. And it’s sad because she can sing, but they’d rather make her a near-burlesque show than let her sing. Anyway…

—Like the earworm stuck in my head after listening to that terrible pop song, the words “men don’t yearn” got stuck in my brain. It was a bit infuriating, although I couldn’t place why… I don’t care about this kind of thing.

CUT TO (listen, I know this is a short story and not a screenplay, but I’m a director so…)

CUT TO: Los Angeles—
but really a random soundstage somewhere in Burbank. If you didn’t know how the business worked, you’d think it’s some elaborate place. Nope. It’s basically a lonely old warehouse, rundown on the outside, in the middle of a raggedy parking lot.

And listen, I’m not complaining, I love what I do… I’m just tired today and I don’t totally want to be out here. This town can be lonely and draining, and I have to pace myself before coming back. This is the off season for me. I should be refreshing my energy… but, again, I owed my agent a favor.

I drag out of the Uber… still have my carry-on bag. I don’t know why I brought it— I didn’t get a hotel. I’m leaving as soon as this is done.

I roll the thing across the parking lot, slowly recalling the all-too-brief call I had about what I’m supposed to be shooting. It was some kind of elaborately choreographed dance number—the choreographer was really the director, and the shots were planned beforehand. I was just brought in to make sure the circus didn’t fly out of its program. I was a “director on paper” for this one. Easy… babysitting. That’s how my agent sold me on it, at least.

I walked through the side door, hoping to sneak in and get my brain together before hopping into the swing of things (I promise I’m going to get to the “yearn,” but you’re here for a story so let me set it up).

I hear an unusually chaotic cacophony of crew and dancers on the other side of the double doors. Above me, I hear the artist arguing with her manager about something in the green room. Not a great sign. My next immediate task is to find my Assistant Director. I have a feeling something is upside down and the A.D. (the real set wrangler) is somewhere spinning out of his mind, waiting for relief.

But I need to do my pre-shoot ritual.

I lean against the white bricks. Close my eyes, silence my head, let the sound of the set overtake me, breathe slowly… wonder why the hell an introvert like me picked a type of gig that required me to be in front of people… I breathe… and in about two minutes I should be reset into director mode…

………except, nope.

Misfire. That adrenaline kick doesn’t fire. No worries… I’ll try it again.

A minute or so goes by, my eyes still closed, and I feel a warm thud on my chest.

I open my eyes to a cup of coffee. “Try this…”

It’s the artist’s agent. I won’t tell you her name.

“How long was your flight?” she asks with a bit of sympathy hidden under an edge of bite. We’d met once before, talked a lot over email. She was witty, sharp, fast… pretty, something I noticed and intentionally forgot about quickly.

“I don’t know… but I was in Louisiana last night,” I said. “There was a layover, but I couldn’t tell you where.”

“Oh, I should have ordered a double shot for you then.”

“Thank you for the consideration anyway.”

“Don’t take it personally—I buy coffee for all the directors about to fall into a shit show.”

“So my gut was right. What kind of warzone is waiting for me on the other side of those double doors?”

“Do you know why the other director quit?”

“Quit?! I was told she had a family emergency…”

“Ha! Who told you that?”

“How bad is it?”

And at once, the disagreement between the artist and her manager intensifies above us—and my A.D. bursts through the double doors, exclaiming:

“Great. You’re here. HE’S HERE!” he shouts back to an entourage of confused and agitated people who no doubt bring a deluge of questions I have no idea how to answer yet.

Her and I exchange a look that says, I guess it’s time to work now. Good luck.

She goes her way, and I feel that adrenaline spike. The “director” personality takes over my brain. “All right, boss, what’s the situation?” I spin to the A.D.

The A.D. starts a very unsettling monologue about how the artist hated the choreography, fired the old choreographer… who happened to be sleeping with the director, who got upset and quit after the choreographer was fired. The new choreographer had some “fresh ideas,” but now all the shots are different and the Director of Photography stormed off, nowhere to be found.

This was a salvage operation—the elephants had broken loose in the circus.

My agent will be getting a strongly worded email… but first. I dialed my personality to 20 and burst through the double doors—what happened is a whole other story.

CUT TO (look, get over it)

Fifteen hours later. The dogged crew has begun striking the set—
and absolutely weary, as I sit on an apple box, leaning against the wall, my eyes follow a production assistant sweeping up glitter and panties (don’t ask).

The shoot got done, but it was truly a three-ring circus of epic proportions, held together by gaff tape, the grit of the most hardworking production assistants I’ve ever worked with, and continually thinking on my toes. Halfway through, I had to operate the camera, because the D.P. was still pissy… so I was a little sore… but it got done. Although I’m quite sure I’m going to find myself in a screaming match with the editor when she realizes I rewrote the music video on the fly.

In a bit of a fuss, the artist storms out of the building with her entourage; but not before exchanging with me a thankful nod.

I feel bad for her. She has a voice like Adele, but they’re positioning her to replace a certain Miss Carpenter, and she doesn’t want that—the tantrums are on purpose. She wants out, wants to make things difficult for her handlers.

But me and her get along because she knows I can see her—that’s really the ONLY reason the shoot didn’t fly apart. And lowkey, I know that’s why my agent threw me blind into this trench. This artist is bound to go independent—and I’ll end up on her creative team. Clever positioning… I just had to perform. And I did… but now I’m empty. An absolute shell.

And alone—the post-shoot mental crash was starting.

My job is done… and so is my usefulness, and I’ll be invisible until I’m useful again. It’s cool. That’s why I fly here but don’t live here. Everybody is a disposable tool. I’m used to it… it does sometimes suck.

I take a breath, gearing up for this solo journey back to my home—the plane.

“Good job today.” It’s her, the agent (no, I’m still not telling you her name). “Here. Chamomile tea with honey.”

“Whoa. Thanks.” I perk up a bit. How did she know… also… there was something nice about hearing her voice. Like I wasn’t completely invisible. Can she see me?... weird.

“Your agent told me this is your thing after a shoot,” she said… and indeed it was.

“I see your play,” I said.

“My play? Do tell.”

“You’re in on it. You’re trying to get her to be independent. And you want me on her creative squad. My agent has you trying to use your pretty-girl powers to lure me in…”

Now I don’t know why the hell I said that or where it came from, but… I said it.

She laughed, fortunately. “Well, if I would have known it was that easy, I wouldn’t have wasted company dollars on coffee and tea.”

Little did she know, it would not have worked. I’m around beautiful women all the time, in a space where women weaponize their beauty and directors weaponize their own power to consume beauty instead of making it. I’ve made it my business to avoid the whole trap—when I’m shooting, I’m making art… not consuming beauty. So that “consume” part of my brain is switched off. And I make sure if it does switch back on, I’m far away from this world.

It’s a tough discipline… with a lot of drawbacks. Because these people are very beautiful, and traps are laid everywhere.

“No… you had me at the coffee and tea,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “I won’t confirm or deny what you said as these walls have ears… but… when is your flight? Do you have time for dinner? We can talk more there. I know a spot.”

I had forgotten to eat, as I tend to do in these situations. Which infuriates my personal trainer…

“I am famished.”

“Famished,” she mimics, amused. “Who says that?”

Stoutly I replied, “I do.”

She laughs.

You know what’s next—CUT TO:

Her spot was a diner that looked like the Edward Hopper painting, Nighthawks. One of my favorite paintings actually. Hers too, apparently. That’s why she liked the place.

We’d had our meal, we’d been there for an hour or two. I was basically stuck in the limbo of twilight until it was time to board for my flight—four hours from now. She was too, although her flight was at a different time, in a different airport. So we sat and just had a chat…

…about strategy, the music industry, the film industry, the artists we worked with—how we managed all this without drinking—something else we had in common.

She was funny, witty, matched my sarcasm, professionalism… and cunning—actually, she was more cunning. She had to be. I wrangled creatives and occasionally had to navigate the vipers. She navigated the vipers. She was probably part viper herself… which was cool as hell.

“I have to take this…” she said abruptly. I didn’t even realize her phone was ringing—the conversation had been thrilling, energizing.

She gets up to take her call, standing—ironically—by an old telephone hanging in the corner by the bar. The way my eye framed her, partly obscured by the bar, partly in shadow, partly touched with the blue and purple neon glow of the light tubes lining the curved window, was incredibly picturesque, noir-like. Just my “director brain” doing what it does: it catches a beautiful subject, and my eye finds the shot. I probably looked like a crazy man, tilting my head in just the right way to find the perfect angle.

She was a picture…
…and then the picture punched me in the face.

Oh no. She’s a picture.
Which means she’s beautiful.
Which means I noticed.
Which means somehow that switch that’s supposed to be switched off got switched back on.

This is why I keep my shooting rhythm. I’m going to have a talking-to with my agent. I’m supposed to be far away from here before I even get close to letting that switch flip.

Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted and instead of it manifesting in feeling tired, it just overloaded another fuse entirely. Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it flipped because I’m not used to being seen after a shoot.
Maybe it’s all of it…

What’s worse is that not only is she beautiful—she is the type. My friends know what “the type” is… and no, I’m not telling you.

But from her shape and silhouette, the color of her eyes, the texture of her hair, the cut she chooses to wear, where she lets the fabric cinch or hang—she’s “the type.”

“Are we cooked, chat?”

…one of those stray mental echoes from the month I spent shooting streamer content replayed in my head. “Are we cooked?”

So now we’re going to play a little game with time.

Three seconds.

On the outside, it’s three seconds. On the inside, time is flexible.

Above the bar is an old clock—the clock is very wrong, but it’s still ticking so we’ll use it.

In a sweeping stride, she walks toward the table—
time slows down, the first second hits…

Fine. Let’s say I like her. She’s all the things I said before. Brain and body.

Let’s say the coffee and tea wasn’t just a play.
Let’s say she saw me… like I saw her.
Two fighters in the trenches, and she instinctively had my back.
Let’s say that tugged me about-face, entirely in her direction.

So let’s speculate, we still have three-quarters of a second…

I like her. When we get on our separate planes, I’m going to wish I was on hers… or she was on mine. Let’s say… my fingers will be itching to text her: “Make it safe?”

Let’s say I know exactly when her plane lands… LAX to BNA (Nashville International), 10:15am (yes, I did know that)… and I felt the urge to give her a call, and did. Let’s say that I looked forward to even her emails in the email chains, reading the way she could cut to the quick with a hidden layer of sarcasm that I would then text and joke with her about “offline.”

What if she made me feel that insufferable feeling… the one that starts eating up my brain RAM? What if instead of daydreaming about the next film or client pitch, I started daydreaming about her? How many hours would I lose in a day dreaming about her?

Let’s say that I would think of ways of being “nearby” so I could ask her to dinner, to tell her I liked her. …what if I didn’t wait for all that, and I just told her now? Or hinted… or tested the waters.

Time’s up.

The clock strikes the next second.

She’s closer, eyes turning in my direction. I bet she’s going to wonder why I’m staring, so let me look away…

Because let me go ahead and tell her and break all my rules. Let her immediately get creeped out. Or call me out for being “that” director. Let her text my agent, and her artist; my agent texts me… deals off. I’m the creep now. I hit on her in the middle of night after a shoot.

This is why I keep this switch turned off.
It’s confusing.
Dangerous.

And if I don’t switch this entire thing back into the off position, I’m going to live out the worst combination of the first two seconds—I’m going to be smart and keep my mouth shut, but still want to chase.

That’s a terrible energy to hold in my gut. It’s a terrible, awful feeling.

As a matter of fact, I feel it already… the yearn…

It’s like a battery overcharged, a current dammed up in my stomach, my lungs, my throat, trying to beam out of my closed eyelids, making my hands tingle as it tries to press out between the slits of my fingernails.

It’s the reckless energy of younger men before they learn to control that current…

I’m older and smarter than that.
I’ve been here before.
I’ve been burned here severely before.
I’ve lost months to “yearning.”
Almost nosedived my reputation.

And for what?
It was little more than a humiliation ritual.
Indignifying.

That’s why I am this way now…

Time’s up.

It’s the last second.
She sits down.

Her beautiful eyes locked to mine, holding the amber sparkle of the old tungsten lights hanging overhead, and the bluish neon hues of the outside sign.

My breath is not steady, and she can’t see it but my right leg isn’t still, it’s bouncing furiously on my heel.

A quarter second is left.
A quarter second is all I have left to make a choice.

I need a sign, a look, something to tell me which way to go.

She sits.
I look.
Nothing.
I can’t read her.

Which is honestly a necessary skill in this business. We make ourselves unreadable. Whatever you are reading is by design.

She could like me back. She could be in love. She could hate my electrified guts. She could simply be playing me like a chess piece. I wouldn’t know.

Time’s up. The clock hit three seconds.

“Everything cool?” I ask… but I’m asking something else.

“The usual bullshit…”

I can’t get a read from that—blackout. Well-trained instinct finally kicking in, that overwhelming current trips my breaker and I go mostly numb.

“A wildfire waiting for you in Nashville?” I ask.

“At least three. But I’m going to pull off the most badass controlled burn you’ll ever see. This girl is going to be independent, and a star,” she replies. Her already sparkling eyes burn ablaze… god i love that…

“You got moxy. I like that,” I say.

She laughs, “Moxy… who the hell says that?”

“I do,” I say as a smirk and wink slip out.

“I dig it…”

I dig it. If I hadn’t already disassociated, I would have registered the warmth in her tone.

But at this point I was watching myself. Regret for maybe missing a cue was as far away as my plane’s next destination. You can determine if overlooking that was tragic…

“Are you good?” she asks.

I didn’t even realize I was looking at a text on my phone. It was from my agent.

“Looks like I got my next assignment.”

“Do tell…”

“I need to think up a pitch by morning. Some trap artist on a comeback tour after getting canceled… they need a banger music video.”

“Who?”

I show her my phone.

“Ooof… good luck with that. His music is trash…”

“I’m sentenced to have to listen to his song the rest of the flight.”

“I’ll pray for you.”

CUT TO…

Trap beats play through my Bose headphones.

I’m walking to my terminal, and yeah… this song was absolute rubbish.

I don’t hate trap, but this was the worst kind of trap. “Low vibration,” I think the kids say. Underdeveloped male attitudes, confuses sex for romance, gratuitously raunchy, a deluge of profanity—but only because the artist can’t construct a clever bar to save his sham of a life.

The lyrics aren’t even fun. The trap beat seems AI-generated. And the worst part is this is a culture vulture doing a trap-artist impression… it won’t be long before he switches to country like Post Malone.

This is not the vibe I’m feeling right now.

But I need my agent to owe me one, so I’m going to at least make a pitch… maybe I can figure a way to subversively make fun of this guy in his own video. He’s not very bright. He’ll miss it.

So as is my way, I listen to the track over and over.

Drowning my cranium in the brain-rotting 808 of this vapid record is better than thinking about… whoever I would be thinking about.

On the plane. In my seat. I’m on my 112th play (because these new trap songs are less than a minute now). My brainwave is now thoroughly programmed in the 808s… images should pop up any time now…

I connect to plane wifi… or should I say try. It doesn’t connect.

I pay too much for this trash airline wifi.

The song stalls, and then pauses altogether… it’s quiet.

I wonder if Sabrina made it to her plane in time…

Damn.

CUT TO BLACK.

…every single word rolling from her tongue could have been a poem unto itself, each syllable its own stanza; all the words together washing you away into a river, and from a river to a bay, and from a bay to an ocean current, which led back to her…

The middle seat on the plane is never my favorite. You don’t get the view from the window, and you’re boxed in, at the mercy of whoever caught the aisle. I usually plan ahead, I’m a meticulous traveler, I had to be for work…but this time, I just went. There was barely a plan, by my standards anyway…I just got up and left essentially.

It was curiosity first that got me. And then I felt the mundane creeping back in, the world was getting small again. I couldn’t sit still anymore. I had to just go…I had to go see if I could find it.

So after buying a last minute ticket, and a quick call to my guide from my last trip, I found myself on a drive to O’Hare, and then a 16 hour flight…sitting in a middle seat on a packed international flight. Fortunately, I had managed to find a comfortable position, pointed the air above me just right, and had been dozing in and out, dreaming…

…a cobblestone street, a cafe, at a table in the open air, yellow and blue lime plaster on the old stone building. Bright stars in the newborn sky above me, still blue, the moon is full, radiant. Music…everywhere.

But my ear catches a voice…serene. It cuts through like a siren’s song through the torrent of sound—laughter, many shuffling footsteps, other music bouncing off the old stone.

Her voice taps my ear, carrying with it the beautiful rhythms wrapped in groove.

I get up…drawn to a dirty alley, not as crowded, amber light pours from the door of a local bar. I wander down– there are hardly any tourists here…that makes me want to visit all the more.

I turn the corner TURBULENCE…

I jerk awake…the movie of the night still playing…something french. “Cléo de 5 à 7” I think. I barely remember it. I’ve seen it before. It was one of the French New Wave films I had to watch in school.

I say “had to”...but secretly I enjoyed them...fantasized about being a midwestern boy lost somewhere else in a different time. Maybe that’s why I’m on this plane..

I managed a peek out of the barely open window across from the older gentleman asleep underneath his blazer. It was still night, but I could see the terrestrial stars of the city we were flying over. I checked the window across the aisle. It will dawn soon, maybe in an hour.

I tried to get back to sleep, maybe I could pick up where I left off. I need to remember… But the rest of the flight was less than comfortable. I was off and on awake, and eventually my circadian rhythm made the proposition impossible.

The rubber wheels skidded on the tarmac I was wide awake, and my efficient traveler’s instinct kicked in— Grab my carry on, endure the procession off the plane, fast-walk to customs, get coffee, drink coffee, meet my contact…

“Qual é o propósito da sua viagem? Negócios ou lazer?” The stern immigration officer said glaring at me. Business or pleasure…was always a funny question to me, and intrusive.

The last time I was here it was for business. I was assigned with a journalist, being all things camera – photographer, and producer.

That’s when I fell in love with Brazil…with the small city of Paraty resting between a beautiful coast and a rainforest. She an old stone and cobblestone colonial city, drawn along a river leading to the bay and its beaches.

It’s one of those spaces that feel like a hidden fold in time, a capsule we shouldn’t know is there…I felt like a trespasser at first, enticed by its music and its faint smell of ocean. But I found that she welcomed me…even asked me to stay.

The assignment lasted two weeks, and when I left I felt like I was tearing myself away…

“Business or pleasure?” he repeated, politely, in English. “Oh…pleasure I guess….” He of course didn’t care. He scanned my passport, snapped it closed and returned it.

I proceeded into the mass…Coffee…

One sip of Brazilian coffee and I realized how terrible US franchised coffee was. A tiny white cup, thick dark brew, and cane sugar, just a little. The rich flavor touched my tongue and felt like home. I’d returned, well sort of.

The plane landed at Rio de janeiro airport, and I had to meet my contact for a long drive to Paraty. I had a full day ahead of me.

I watched the bustle churn beneath me at my small table on a balcony. I had planned my day just for this moment– my contact wouldn’t arrive for another 30…I wanted a moment to reacclimatize myself to the sound of Portuguese; the language was so alive, thrillingly poetic, if you listened closely.

I remembered how beautifully diverse the people were here. A far cry from my very binary midwestern town…homogeneity is so dull…Maybe that’s why I’m here really? To run away from that…

My eyes wandered through the throng… and a slow smile unfurled from my chest, curling across my face…

The alarm on my watch rings. I pinch it silent. Cauã, my contact will be here in fifteen, it will take me ten to fast-walk to the pickup point. He was always very prompt, and I would be rude to make him wait…

Right on time, Cauã’s land rover pulled in its parallel parking spot in the train of arriving and departing cars. It looked just how you would imagine. It was old, eggshell white. probably 20 years old, but maintained perfectly. Not even a scratch in the paint at the bottom. Its only sign of wear were the hubcaps spattered with mud, presumably from its long drive through the forest roads between Rio and Paraty.

Cauã stepped out, a rugged older man in his 50’s, face wrinkled and hardened, his sienna skin tan from the rich coastal sun; his eyes were a little sunken, from a drive that started hours before dawn, but they remained bright.

With his smile wide he greeted me with spanning arms. It was genuine, kind. A little different from when we first met. He had been distant, untrusting. But now, I could feel his joy at seeing me again. “How was your flight my friend?” he said, embracing me—

—The strength of which would have been jarring if my body hadn’t remembered it from our goodbye.

“It was very long…”

“Well, the ride to town will not be as long. Still long…but not so long.” “

I look forward to being back there.”

“You never told me why you’re coming back to my town. Did you forget some pictures from last time?” He asked with a smirk hidden just beneath his stare.

“Oh, no, we published the story. I’m just coming back because…I’m looking for something I think.”

He looked at me, answering with a wily knowing grin. “Something? Or somebody?”

I tried not to grin back…obfuscating, “I’m not sure. I just…I missed the town. I wanted to feel it again.”

Amused, he grabs my bag from my shoulder, “Okay…if you say so,” He placed it in the back seat, “Is this it? You had so many heavy bags last time. No cameras?”

“No. No cameras.” I confessed.

“None?” he asked again, shocked, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photographer without his camera…”

In jest he placed the back of his hand on my forehead, “Are you sick?”

I laughed, “No. I’m not sick…I just don’t want to live through my camera this time.”

“Hmm.” he said softly, with a lingering look. “Well, let’s go. If we go now my wife’s cooking will still be warm when we arrive.”

The faint chalky scent of lime and salt filled my nostrils from the blue plaster over the stone that my hands touched as I walked down that narrow alley— drawn by her voice floating on the strings of the violão, and cavaquinho, the beat of the surdo and pandeiro captured the pace of my beating heart.

I was never a dancer, but something in that sea-salted scented air wrapped around my arms and thighs, reaching around my belly, moving me to swoon to her velvet voice…

…every single word rolling from her tongue could have been a poem unto itself, each syllable its own stanza; all the words together washing you away into a river, and from a river to a bay, and from a bay to an ocean current, which led back to her.

That was the beauty of the language and the craft of her voice wielding it.

I Turned the corner to enter the bar– the rover hits a bump.

I righted myself in the seat, waking, aware of the road and his steady presence. Cauã looks over and grins. I feel rude. He’s been driving since 4am, and we still have several hours before we make it to Paraty.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” I sit up.

“Don’t worry about it. You look like you needed the rest.”

I didn’t…that coffee should have kept me wired. But there was something about this road that lulled me to a trance– between wake and sleep. Maybe it was deep green whipping by me, or the unpolluted air pouring through , or the sun felt more radiant than home, warming my skin, wrapping me like a blanket.

Somehow it felt like I was slipping into a dream...

But I sat up, ready to be a good passenger. Yet my mind drifted back to the dream.

“Do you remember a bar in the city…blue?” I was stumbling to remember details that had become a little hazy. That night had been a blur.

“There are so many bars in the city…” he answered sarcastically.

He stared ahead at the road, but I can see evidence of the grin tucked away on the far side of his face. I had asked him this before…

“There was this woman…she sang…I don’t remember the song—”

“I don’t remember women who are not my wife.” he blurted, the smirk now completely wrapping his face, “Otherwise it would be bad for my health.”

I laugh, I feel silly…certainly I did not come all this way, just for the memory of a woman in Paraty…

END OF PART ONE

It feels like gild-kissed embrace
through sunlit windows,
swaddling the couch where we’d fallen asleep,
covering us in dawn blankets where we lay…
or maybe an afternoon blanket—
we’re not awake enough to tell.

It feels like her tears on my chest, and cheeks,
and the sound of her voice humming through my lungs
as she speaks of loss, and love, and joy,
and all the subtle turns of life disguised as melancholy.

It feels like…
It feels like all the things I let steal away, But hope for again.

A Fools nostalgia

…to the one kissed in the gardens

If you’d like to know where this little poem came from, circle back to here:

For those who want to engage your imagination…in one word, how do you feel after a good night with someone you love? ….or what do you hope to feel?

Drop a word in the comments.

Standing here, in this spot, with her—that was exactly where I wanted to be. It was where I needed to be. My heart ached, but the kind of ache a full belly knows.

The old sky blue rusty Ford convertible we… borrowed… was parked on the side of the road. That kind of road between roads, just off the highway the world had forgotten about.

I leaned against the bark of a tree, and she leaned on me. It was the only tree on that road. That’s what made us stop, on our way to… somewhere.
There wasn’t a place on earth you could pay me to be instead, and no amount of money could make me leave anyway. Here, in this moment, with her, was the most priceless spot in the world. The most valuable sliver of time in all of time.

Her brown hair, strands catching the wind, glowed like copper in the sun. Her toasted beige skin was soft against mine. Her body pressed into my heartbeat, and it felt like I could feel all of her. Strange. Comforting. Her scent still lingered, like the rose-scented shampoo from the motel we crashed and dashed… but rose petals is what she smelled like anyway.

She wore my t-shirt from that morning, cut-off jeans rolled neatly at the thigh, (I watched her roll them, meticulously) and she was barefoot. She kicked off her sandals 8 miles back.

She looked up at me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I would’ve looked away if it weren’t that her eyes always stole my gaze. But she saw it. The flinch.

“Hey baby, you okay?”

I didn’t know what to say. It was too late to lie—she’d know.
But I couldn’t tell her. She shouldn’t know that I’d fallen for her… for real.
If she did, this whole summer escapade might end. It’d get serious. And that’s not what she wanted, or at least, I didn’t know.
This felt like Schrödinger’s fling, and maybe I’d rather not open the box.

Knowing it was dead would kill me.
She was everything.
She was, finally.
She’d manifested exactly as I wished her.

In the middle of a mild summer, she wandered close.
I wanted an escapade.
I wanted an adventure.
I wanted reckless abandon.
And she wandered close.
And so did I.
And then she wandered closer.
And then... the summer was hot.
Very hot. A flurry. Euphoric.

And now the sun was setting.
Fall was coming. The cold. The dark.

“Babe?” she whispered, but I could feel her words climb her lungs before she said them; her chest was pressed so tight against mine…

I locked eyes with her. They were glassy brown, like infinite marble, and in them I saw the reflection of the sunset, and the end.
My eyes asked. Hers didn’t answer.

But she kissed me. And I kissed her back.
Long enough to forget that this escapade, and the hot summer, would likely end with the setting sun.

The last time he was in Chicago, he knew when he left again, he’d be leaving himself behind. But he couldn’t tell her what he felt. Chicago was Chicago—alive, electric, and raw. But it wasn’t just Chicago that had him enduring the journey through that middle nowhere. It was her. She was Chicago. The two of them worked well together, and the city was their playground. They were two elements that made a force together; when they moved, the city stirred in their wake.

It was the moment he pulled her away that he knew—underneath the lights of the Chicago Theatre. She wasn’t the talent, but the way she looked inspired him. Their client, an artist they were working for, was busy on a call. The shoot was pretty much over; the crew had already begun packing their equipment. He had little film left in his camera. He hinted with his eyes. She smiled. They stole away under the infinite golden lights of the marquee.

It was busy—tourists everywhere, commuters from the nearby subway, vagrants, pickpockets, city noise. It was a doomed idea… but the way she looked inspired him. Maybe there was a chance for one good shot.

He found a spot, she found her poses, he found his angle. All he had to do now was wait. His eye had to decipher the right moment in time—one where nothing was in her frame. No vagrants. No passersby. No tourists. A few moments looked promising, but nothing. Time was up. They could see it was about time to reassemble with the crew. It was hopeless. The moment had passed.

And to this day, he doesn’t know why he did it—but he did. It was like the energy between them begged him to try. He looked up at her; she had almost given up too. But he smiled, and her eyes hinted to try anyway.

His finger slipped over the mechanism. The film started to roll. He rose for the movement and watched—perfect serendipity. Their combined creative force maestro’d the life of the city around them. The moment between roll and cut was pure mise-en-scène—a kind that Tarkovsky in all his mastery could not have arranged. Every player hit their mark, the lights sparked on their cue, and the wind itself blessed the shot, composing every strand of her hair into its place.

He looked up from the camera, dissociating into the present. She was Chicago.

His breath caught. She looked at him with a nervous smile that said “Did we get it?” The city had returned to itself—noisy, clamoring, chaotic. He was still mesmerized, in silent disbelief. He managed a nod, still trying to catch his breath from the rarified air.

She came around and close to see the take. He played it back but was taken instead by the sight of her glowing tan skin against his. He felt her body next to his, her brown hair falling over his arm. His heartbeat throbbed. Could she hear it? Could she sense the blood of his entire body coursing toward her? He felt exposed—like raw film opened to daylight.

She loved the shot. She adored it. She looked up at him, and when their brown eyes locked, his mind short-circuited. Thoughts log-jammed. Breath caught. Say something. Say anything. But the moment slipped away, like water through his fingers.

By the time the crew disassembled, he never got the chance to say anything besides the obligatory niceties. And even if he had… he knew he wouldn’t have had the nerve. Before he knew it, Chicago was behind him, fading in the rearview while he drove closer and closer toward the numbness of home.

A week passed.

There was a remote debrief video call. They were both lauded for the success of the project. But even through the screen, something between them had changed. The mention of his name made her glance away. He said nothing. The call ended. His screen went black. The silence returned.

He let out a breath and tried to relinquish himself to the numbness again. It was easier not to feel.

Until he caught a glimpse of his forearm—and he remembered the warmth of her skin against his. The moment came rushing back. The heartbeat. The city. Her.

And just as he reached for his phone—he froze. What could he say? He would ruin everything. The moment had passed. There was no going back.

He surrendered. He was too tired to dream anymore.

He zipped his backpack, stood, and picked up his phone to pocket it—but it rang in his hand.

Her name.

His heart stopped. Then raced. He answered. But she spoke first.

"We have to talk. I felt something that night, and I don't know what to do with it. I can’t get it out of my mind."

"I thought we worked well together."

"We did. But… the moment under the marquee…"

"When we snuck away?"

"…Yeah. I felt—"

"No. Not like this. Not on the phone."

"What do you mean?"

"Can I come to you?"

"To Chicago?"

"Yes. I won’t do this here. Can I come to you?"

"Yes."

"Meet me under the marquee…"

"Okay."

He felt himself slipping—like he was waking up from a long, lifeless sleep. The drive was a blur. His car stopped on the corner.

And there she was. Under the golden lights of the marquee. Waiting.

He met her. There were no words. Only breath. And before the moment could slip again… he kissed her.

And this time—he didn’t leave.