ISN'T SHE LOVELY?

𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑵 𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑬𝑮𝑨𝑵 𝑻𝑶 𝑭𝑰𝑳𝑳 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑻𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑺. 𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑫. 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑼𝑻𝒀 𝑶𝑭 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑫 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑴𝑩𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑶, 𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑩𝑳𝑬 𝑾𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑷𝑬𝑵 𝑩𝑬𝑪𝑨𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑽𝑰𝑮𝑰𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯. 𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑫 𝑨 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑹 𝑶𝑭 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝑶 𝑮𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑩𝑬 𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑹 𝑰𝑻.

PINTEREST. CONNECTIONS.

        one  of  the  most  truly  illustrious  highlights  of  julia’s  career,  both  personally  and  professionally,  was  the  moment  she  found  herself  cast  alongside  ava  in  a  passionate  adaptation  of  carol.  from  their  first  chemistry  read,  julia  had  a  profound  understanding  that  she  had  found  someone  truly  magical  in  this  hell  of  an  industry  —  she  connected  deeply  with  the  bright,  beautiful  young  woman,  thus  cultivating  one  of  their  finest  onscreen  performances.  and  if  there  was  one  thing  that  she  had  learned  not  only  throughout  filming,  but  also  in  the  delicate  friendship  they  had  cultivated,  it  was  the  undeniable  truth  that  it’s  remarkably  easy  to  fall  in  love  with  ava  castro.  though  it  had  been  a  handful  of  years  since  their  film  garnered  both  praise  and  a  frenzy  of  online  fans  observing  their  every  interaction,  ava’s  remained  a  warm,  reliable  presence  in  julia’s  perpetually  chaotic  life.

       “under  no  obligation?”  julia’s  already  grinning,  head  canted  towards  the  actress,  “ava,  darling,  you’re  acting  as  if  i’m  being  waterboarded  or  forced  to  sit  through  a  nauseating  james  cameron  panel  —  same  thing,  i  suppose.”  she  lowers  her  voice  then,  almost  gleefully  —  sure,  he  kick  started  her  career,  but  she’s  certainly  had  more  than  a  few  migraines  solely  dedicated  to him.  “i’ve  been  looking  for  an  excuse  to  work  with  you  again  for  years,  and  this  …  i  mean,  isn’t  everyone  dying  to  be  part  of  this?”  or  rather,  isn’t  everybody  dying  to  play  alongside  ava  at  her  most  glamorous?  julia  certainly  is.  “but  go  on,  if  you’re  so  eager  to  tell  me  yourself,  then  please,”  she  beams,  reclining  into  her  seat  and  arching  an  eyebrow  towards  the  femme,  “how  would  you  have  sold  me  on  the  project?  you  know,  presuming  i’m  an  idiot  who  wouldn’t  immediately  say  yes.”

it had been strange and amusing to see the way the outside world had interpreted the fondness between them, counting up affections in backstage photos or behind the scene film, moments inscribed as unique from other relationships, and therefore proof of an intimacy beyond friendship. but the truth of it that there was a difference with julia — a mutual assuredness of respect, a thing real and solid that ava did not hesitate to put her weight onto. that complete lack of doubt or uncertainty when the woman across from her says i’ve been looking for an excuse to work with you again for years.

“my elevator pitch? alright, alright,” she straightens up into the grin this idea elicits, rolling her shoulders in a quick little burst of excitement. “now, i would’ve taken your hand like this,” one folded into both of hers at the midpoint of the table, an imitation of solemnity as ava clears her throat. “you know, like some studio exec whose either far too familiar, or much too desperate,” a giggle threatens the bit. ava lets it stretch her lips again before swallowing. “and i’d say,” pause. gravitas. “julia, i know how strongly we both feel about our capacity to work together. and all selfishness about the fun we have aside, i think i have something where we could do it all over again. i’ve seen the script, spoken with potential directors, and while admittedly i don’t have any of the colour or experience of cherry red, i’m trying to follow your lead in having a hand in shaping this story, which i truly think could be brilliant. especially if you would come on board with me. i can’t think of anyone more talented, or more perfectly suited, to fall in love with all over again —”

the bit falls to the table. ava’s smile is genuine.

“— and if that didn’t work, i’d have a little cartier in my purse.”

he can see that spark in her eyes  —- no,  no not a spark, a faraway glow that seems to approach, looming larger as it closes in and then blooms; a formless thing taking shape if you only bother to see past the glare. she goes off on a tangent in that melody of hers that he knows too well. he could close his eyes and know which way she’d move: the angle of her shoulders, exactly which point of the next phrase the head will tip. her story is charming, it’s easy to lose focus, she had cravings in the middle of the night, the confusion off a sleep-addled brain almost led her to make a whimsical blunder, he can encapsulate it into a single sentence in moments, but no, what he is watching here, is the way she chooses to tell it. long-winded, but effective in rolling the tape of his imagination, because he knows, what she looks like, in all those little moments — when she is tired, when she is restless, the delicate way she’d take a bite out of those fucking cakes, the material of her robe and what she’d feel like under it, and then wrapped in a pretty bow of a reference ti all the things that had happened in prague.  he can’t help but wonder, if this is a hook that’s just occurred to her, or if it is a tether she is grabbing onto, to keep herself — or him, in that balcony, just a little longer, before he starts to say the thing that is already there at the back of his mind: we can’t be out here alone for too long. too open. too exposed.  

strange little anthologies.  the phrase brings a quicker huff of grey from his airways, tapping ash over the railing before scraping his middle finger over his cupid’s bow. it’s a private chuckle he won’t expound on. ava is a bird in a plane, all featherlight and silken to touch, caught in an inescapable dream, she flies… soars… but whether that’s to where she wants ?  he can’t tell. that part has never been his job. and the personal time they’ve spent, he’s never delved too deeply into finding out because he doesn’t want to find an answer that he doesn’t like. things get complicated. complicated in their business could be inspiring, too complicated could end everything.

 “  you know, it doesn’t take that much to buy a recipe off a chef in prague. ”  a filler sentence, it buys him time that he extends with another long drag, a lift of a brow as he taps again,   “  been busy. i did miss you from time to time. ”   now and then in the vanguard,  when he’d crawled out of a hole just to go into another hole, shrouded in a corner, he’d see flashes of what she might look like, dim lighting, bouncing off bare shoulders, carrying what he could make of her next. 

( ... )

her attention snags on some brightly coloured moment of the jubilee behind the glass doors, and she watches a company of beautiful people dance as louis speaks. they’re so careless compared to this moment on the balcony, the ones inside moving inside a moment rather than revolving around its perimeters. “yes, i suppose you can always buy something, can’t you?” it had been a small little shop, lovely in its quaintness, leaned to one side as if it needed the compassionate shoulder of its neighbour to stay upright. the kind of place where the recipe was memorized rather than written. but that’s not the point, or the arrow, or the meat of what she’s saying. 

there’s a twitch in his jaw, visual crossbeats straining against its edge, movement discernible under the skin. his hum underlines her question, brief, but low. the look he tosses her is amused, but pointed. this is how it’s always been, he’s the one toting  caution  at her like he is its very own posterchild  —  a position he resents. risks  matter.  he has to believe he knows better what the right ones are.

“  boring damned people, all over the earth, propagating more boring damned people, what a horror show,  ”   the quote spills listlessly like a rote continuation of where she leaves off. bukowski’s words have a propensity to sound profound, until you remember that he was a bitter man who couldn’t even cope with his own misogyny, a man who’d reject first for fear of potential rejection.   oddly, it parallels their participation in the hollywood system perfectly. hamsters in a wheel,  the aspiration towards some higher moral consciousness, recognising the plight of the people they perform for,  claiming to empower and yet there’s still a fucking red carpet camera that pans downward for only the women.

his eyes follow the trail of her fingers. delicate. controlled. a little different from what he remembers, but the eyes. the eyes are the same.   “  were we that obnoxious ?   ”

( ... )

“to everyone else in the room? almost certainly.”

it nearly feels like the hour to tell a story. nearly. another few clicks of a short hand on a white face, and ava might have started on i couldn’t even get through a sentence that didn’t keep your name inside it. could have said, you didn’t stray any farther than the edge of my perfume. if it had been any later in the evening, she might have.

but it’s still early. everyone inside has a long way to go before they pass the threshold of unbearable inebriation, louis is rewarding her quips with a look crossed between amusement and caution, and the lights are raised high enough that he can read the reverie on her face. it’s too early, really, and there’s no need to recite a story when you can see the pictures playing across the screen.

ava doesn’t mind, knowing she plays like a projector in front of louis; the memory is one warm, hard soap-bubble on the inside of her ribs. fond, ephemeral, outlasting. 

the bass is muffled,  but it vibrates,  pounding somewhere at the back of his neck.  he doesn’t sense her in quite the same way,  it’s more about how the blurred bodies in the corners of his vision seem to turn towards the same thing and then shuffle at the same moment…  like animals before a storm.  his amusement huffs briefly and he’ll breathe in deeply,  face turned up against the breeze,  the freshest thing he’ll get tonight  —  before he lights up,  takes a long drag.   “   more party appropriate,  ”    grey ash expels upward and outward before he turns,  corner of his lips pulled up one way,  leaning on the railing by his elbow. 

words don’t do her justice,  so he doesn’t waste his time trying to use them.  he’s lived long enough to know that eyes matter,  they do the talking for you.  his reflect the star-light she’s exuding.  free finger swishes somewhere close to his ear.  “  looks good.  goes with the palette   ”   if he didn’t know better,  if he didn’t find her so uniquely noticeable,   he might have said that she is almost unrecognisable from certain angles.  he could still say it.  she wouldn’t believe him.  “  it’s good to see you.  ”  manhattan is full of contradictions and distractions,  he’s perused the haunts,  the vanguard,  the bookstore in greenwich village,  smoked a pipe while reading scripts,  and still his mind had wandered.  a poem comes to mind this moment  —  he won’t recite it,  he knows what that does.  “  enjoying yourself ?  ”

“easel or tongue?” palette or palate, is the joke, and it’s an easy witticism for her to find. she’d spent the first few years of their relationship leaning the ear of her heart too far forward, trying to read something meaningful in every one of his responses, so the double meaning gives itself up naturally. eyebrows are raised slightly, chin canting outward. she’s no longer the girl twisting endlessly in order to catch the light, hoping he’ll look a little longer, but she is a woman who still wants to make him smile. 

“thank you,” she still adds, “it’s always good to see you, louis.” so different from the flattery happening indoors, it’s not a fan to his ego but a single feather added to the scales as ava strays closer to the railing. the balance stays perfectly even. we read this as true. it’s spoken gently and not a single nominee inside could make it sound more genuine. it’s simply how it is. those birdlike shoulders rise up and fall, a slight little gesture, as she comes to rest next to him.

“you know how i am at these things,” a set of fingers run absently over the jut of her collarbone, knuckles brushing against cool diamond as she notes that he smells the same. ava had, previously, refused to look at the bottle of his cologne when it was on the nightstand, a pointed game of ignorance in order to pretend it was a not scent bottled and sold, but one unique to louis alone. funnily enough, she never seemed to catch the smell on anybody else. “it’s all gorgeous, really. and i can see all these people separately, but somehow once they’re all together...” her eyes go to the distance as she trails off. the skyline is familiar, and so is the rest of her sentiment. he knows, so there’s no point in repeating it. she’s a thoroughbred filly, made to fit the room but sensitive and high-strung once it’s packed, unable to figure out whether to shine or sit in the dark. similarly, she holds off on asking are you enjoying yourself in return, because he isn’t. she knows that too. “when we were here in twenty eighteen,” she says instead, reverie drawing something fond into her mouth, shaping it into a distant smile. “that was the only year it wasn’t like that.”

a velvet booth among the hedonism of the vanity fair after party.

if you’ve been at the right, insignificant points of history  ⸺ a space below it’s elbow, left collarbone, nape of the neck  ⸺ you’d know how familiar the sight of them is. two platinum blonde heads (or formerly a matching set, what with ava’s finely curled head currently shaded far warmer) bent together among a thrum of music, one slender and tall, the other tender and evocative enough in body to bring up the word overripe. but those were spaces, pulse points, that belonged to vita and ava, women who had once been girls who had once been children making promises. look at them now. indents in their pinky fingers from where they made their oaths. “oh!” ava says suddenly, a set of milky, almond-shaped nails rising up like pearls to hide the sudden laugh peeling out of her mouth. her glance rolls sideways, demonstrating to vita the source of her surprise: a recognizable recording artist with his nose drifting smartly over rows of finely cut white powder. “i haven’t been that brazen about that since our biarritz summers.”