𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

where — some random bar 

when — saturday, 11th september, approximately 4pm

open starter — @phxstarters​​

                    “Interesting.” The brunette muttered to herself, her gaze immediately falling on a male gaze across the room, though, she was pretty unsure on who it was falling on. It was definitely either herself, or the patron to her right, but she just hoped that if it was herself, they didn’t brave it and come over to initiate anything. “I can’t tell if that guy is checking me out, or you.” Andi nudged the side of the company beside her, filling them in on the situation as she sniggered slightly on the matter. They sure weren’t her type, that was for sure. Perhaps the other party would have more interest? “Not gonna lie, I seriously hope it’s you.”

      Unless the man in question is ruminating on the going rate for autographs of once-vaguely-respected filmmakers -- and whether it’s worth requesting one from Kai, who, at present, is too inebriated to remember his own name, let alone produce a legible signature -- he’s absolutely looking at Andi. If his gaze has been straying to Kai, it’s presumably only because he’s trying to work out if he’s her father (and, as a result, if hitting on someone could ever be considered socially acceptable when their dad is right there.)                  “Oh, he’s definitely staring at you, I’m sorry to say. Pretty sure he’s setting a new record for the longest time spent without blinking here. It’s quite remarkable... and only a little bit sinister.”

              He’s exceptionally ill at ease, perched gingerly on Moe’s sofa, arms swamped with the taffeta fabric of a dress, Tobias staring at him as though he’s just confessed to shaving cats in his spare time for fun.  It has taken Kai far longer than it should’ve done to realise that his eldest daughter, Agnès, despite having a name that quite literally means pure, has, for the sake of her own evil amusement, been purposely sending him over to collect her dresses from Moe, acutely aware of the awkwardness that was bound to ensue.   And it is, indeed, excruciatingly awkward at the best of times, with small intervals for Moe to poke fun.         ‘If you ever want better suits, let me know’ has been one that’s stuck with him.   (This is precisely why Agnès loves Moe. Her exquisite work, of course, but the ability to roast her father definitely wins added favour.)

         “You know, I’m starting to think I should take you up on the offer of better suits. At least it means I’d be coming here for myself too and not just for Agnes’ amusement.”   A nod is spared towards Toby.    “Does he look at everyone as though he’s contemplating their murder, or am I special?”

“Most jobs wouldn’t have limits if HR didn’t exist.” Her statement spoke more to the nature of humans than anything else. Money drove life. Money consumed every element of society. Everyone was a victim to the endless cycle and therefore abuse within that felt inevitable. She’d been on both ends of the spectrum - filthy rich and dirt poor. No one was happy, because money didn’t equal happiness it equaled survival. “There are many thankless jobs in this world, Kai. At least I don’t have to watch people die in a hospital or pick up garbage off the road.” She knew no matter how she explained it, most people looked at her life as sad and depressing. Maybe it was, but she chose not to see it that way, because what would she be if she did. “Everyone’s sad. Everyone’s fucked up. I try not to judge people for how they cope with it, even if it means fucking me like I’m nothing. It’s not about me. It’s about them…” She sighed softly, feeling her eyes tear. 

Leeor pulled away, moving to lay on the bed. She adjusted the pillow, feeling more secure closer to the bed. The hardest part of it all was listening to him talk about how guilty he felt. His guilt was not a reflection of him, for merely paying someone to talk to was basically therapy. She was what he felt guilty about. “You wouldn’t feel that way if I wasn’t a whore.” She whispered. “Even if you stopped paying me, like I said you could, you’d feel guilty for kissing me because of what I do.” She let her eyes flutter shut, trying to keep it all on the inside. 

                A shared language of loneliness can't change widely, wildly differing lives. They both know that, right? After their meetings, Kai has the luxury of leaving it behind. There’s a home to return to, a family and the delicate routines they’ve built around an absence they don’t name. These are certainties that are so easily taken for granted. Lee doesn’t have that; this is her life, spent in hotels and parking lots and God knows where else men decide to take her. To know so little about someone that you do not even know how little you know; that’s what talking with her is like. There’s so much more to her, lurking beneath the surface. Kai catches glimpses of it in moments of vulnerability, but the measure of a person can’t be found in secretive hotel room meetings.

                 In the absence of her body on his, he sits up, drawing his knees to his chest, arms wrapping around them as if attempting to hold himself together. Head tilts back till it’s resting against the headboard, chin tipped to the ceiling.

       "I'd feel the same way about anyone. That's where the shame stems from: me. Not you. Not who you are, or what you do. I mean, I’m still married, Lee." As if that’s ever historically stopped men from seeking love elsewhere. Still, and even if a wedding ring is something he has in common with other clients, it feels as though the waters are muddied by his circumstances. Perhaps, in some ways it would be easier to go home and lie to your wife about where you've been, who you've been with, than be forced to agonise over what the dead would make of your decisions. That added layer of grief is like a weight pressing onto his diaphragm, implacable and unchanging. You can try and fight it, but you can’t not lose to it.       "It would be like cheating, wouldn’t it? Just with the absence of a guilty party. Like some kind of victimless crime.”

           He could leave it there. Arguably, he should leave it there, lest he damn himself any further, but…      “I do think about it, though. A lot. You. Your hands. Your mouth. How it would feel. But at no point in those thoughts do I see it, see you, as being a whore.”   Even if it’s the same word she’d used, it feels ill at ease on his tongue.    “You’re the kindest person I know. That’s who I see.”

                    Guilt was a bitch. It ate at you alive. It was probably why Abby was in the hot seat and was itching to make a run for it. Take a leap and never look back. It made her stomach churn and perhaps she was being a bit dramatic about it all ── but the woman had never been one to sit through a confrontation where it was entirely her fault. It wasn’t just her marriage where her hand wasn’t the only one in play. It was her relationship with her daughter and that was on her. It actually reminded her of how her father could be, the ever notorious Edmund Allen, which Abby would never, ever admit. She’d been provided the photographs as a means to a distraction when Kai grew quiet, which prompted her brow to tick. Abby wasn’t foolish, she knew he had much more to say on the matter. “I’m going to ask them to tag along with me to New York. I’ve got a couple of shoots lined up in September so,” She trailed off, licking her lips, much more tame than before. Ultimately Abby knew that Kai was coming from a good place. Knowing Ben had also been a package deal with Mia in this case, Abby referred to they as them. After all, she was making strides to fix her marriage as well, and that whole distance thing was a major issue for them. They never got a glimpse of ‘her’ world and it was about time that changed. “It’s already arranged even if they say no, so, if they do, you and Sid just might be tagging along with me.” But she was hopeful. 

                    Manicured fingers began shifting through the photocopies and picking out her favorites, then separating the ones she’d reshoot and touch up and give a bit more work on. She could practically do this in her sleep, so her eye returned to Kai, lips pursed. “You have girls. You should’ve been prepared for this a long time ago. Shoes are a never ending thing. You can never have too many.” She should know. Always making a show of the heels that ended up on her delicate feet. The photographer actually managed a smirk now that the air was clear and even stretched her legs out to click the pair she wore for the flare of it. “Just you wait.” Her chuckle was soft. Fingers moved her hair from her eyes once more. “How are those girls anyway? And you? Your heart hasn’t given out yet, so,” Her smirk returned yet again with her kid. “You’re still alive and kicking.” 

       Chaperoning Sid within the confines of Phoenix is already a herculean task all by itself, but keeping her out of trouble in New York? His heart hiccups at the mere thought. A little internal prayer is said that Ben and Mia can make the dates -- even as he smiles at Abby, like the idea of himself and Sid going in lieu is lovely -- for the sake of preserving his sanity and the sake of Abby’s good intentions. And they are good. Kai would do well to recognise the attempt just as much as the result, instead of being swift to find fault. Love isn’t always grand declarations, running-through-an-airport; serenading-up-to-an-open-window.   In his experience, love is in the minutiae. It’s keeping his hair long enough for Cléo to play hairdressers (and keeping his protests to a minimum when she, heavy-handed as ever, all but yanks the hair from its root). Love is twirling Agnès around in the low light of their living room while old records spin idle circles, the same catalogue she used to stand on his toes to dance to as a child (they still try, on occasion, invariably falling into spluttering heaps when it goes wrong). Love is allowing Arthur to be Arthur, encouraging his whims no matter what shape they take. Helping him become a pirate sailing the high seas one day, an astronaut suspended in space the next. It’s waking up every day and choosing to stay, for them, even when life feels like a hotel he’s ready to check out of. So -- he gets it. Truly, he does. He just needs to be more vocal about that.

        “I don’t think anything can sufficiently prepare you, Abby. The sheer amount of shoes -- it’s staggering, truly.”     Agnès favours ludicrously high heels. Cléo likes anything she can kick people with. Arthur would happily go barefoot everywhere if he had his way, more chimpanzee than child. A strange bunch, all things considered.     Kai observes Abby’s own heels, the delicate click --  wonders, not for the first time, how on Earth women manage to walk gracefully in them; even the pinchiest of dress shoes cannot possibly compete as far as discomfort goes.  “They’re feral as ever, I’m afraid -- but they’re good kids.”        Flashbacks to Cleo propelling Arthur across the living room mere minutes before Abby arrived. Good kids. Good joke.    And you? is the real mystery. He’s alive, like she says. Kicking, perhaps less so.

       He opts for deflection, offering a non-committal hum, neither here nor there. So-so. “What’s the verdict?” A nod towards the photographs, another little stab at changing the subject.   “You think they’ll be okay? I feel impossibly out of practice with all of this.”   With creating. Making a short film is baby steps towards his old career; it’s hardly going to be Citizen Kane. It’ll be a total non-event in the world of cinema, he imagines, but it’s better than twiddling his thumbs and not working.

Upon first glance, these two men seem to have nothing in common. But little do they know they’d both rather be at home.

The difference is Shami knows the second he opens the front door, he’s entering into the line of fire from his own harsh critic, whether it’s deserved or not. Farha made it a point for him to know she’d be in this evening which translates into wanting the house to herself for the night. Their marriage might not be the healthiest, but at least they’re trying to make things work with what they’ve got. Apparently, for them, that means avoiding each other. 

Shami’s taste in media hasn’t changed since he was around sixteen years old. He likes fast action sequences, cheesy jokes, a mindless storyline where the message of the movie goes right over his head. In some ways, criticism from Shami is a compliment of the highest regard. 

“Holy-” A voice speaks and it makes him jump. He didn’t realise someone was nearby. The surprise from finding out there’s a sequel is quickly subdued over the shock from seeing who spoke. Strange, because he has the same face of the person who he’d stared at on his phone a few minutes ago. 

“You’re not- You can’t be-” A look of guilt cross his features as he slips his thumb between his teeth to bite down on it. Just his luck. “I don’t suppose you’re a long lost twin or a look-a-like or something?”

                            It’s a comfort to know that, no matter how poorly your night is going, it can’t possibly be any more abysmal than Shami’s. Even Kai has the ability to recognise that his own embarrassment, as the original subject of scorn, must pale in comparison to the person who dished it out. In the absence of anger, there’s a twinge of pity. He can’t really be angry about it, can he? The film is infernally dull; his own daughter said she’d sooner french-kiss a badger than watch it again (tough crowd).

                  “I’m afraid not -- although a long-lost-twin is exactly the kind of implausible plot twist one would find in The Abyss.” He won’t say the full film title; naming it means acknowledging it’s real. He’d really rather not. Ignorance equals bliss and all that.   “So, I can understand the confusion.”     Oh, this is fun, in a strange, self-drag way (the fact he’s not entirely sober certainly helps, too.)   Perhaps he should do this more often, lurk in dark corners of picture-houses waiting for someone to badmouth one of his films (he imagines that won’t take long) so he can swan in and show them up. He needs a new hobby;   this is perfect.

          “On a scale of one to ten, how much are you wishing this is all a bad dream? I assure you it’s very much real -- as real as the 5% Rotten Tomatoes rating for The Abyss.” He’ll drink to that -- and he does, the burn in his throat dulled by distraction.     “The person you were on the phone to -- they don’t have anything important tomorrow, do they? Or in the foreseeable future? If they do, they’re going to sleep through it. Perhaps you should warn them -- unless you don’t like them very much. In which case...”

Her face fell as the word sorry fell from his lips. She studied his face before quickly turning away, not being able to bare the look of pity knitted in his brows.  The point of her shared truth fell flat, overshadowed by the realness of her life. She only intended to make him feel better about himself. She only intended to prove that his mere conversations were something she looked forward to. Leeor felt that feeling rising in her throat - diagnosed one might call it anxiety, but she’d never seen a professional. She’d felt the sensation since her teenage years, where the walls closed in and her lungs ceased to work. “I didn’t tell you any of that so you’d feel sorry for me.” She didn’t want his sorry. 

Why do you do this? Wouldn’t something – wouldn’t anything be better? A different job. A different life. You could do anything. You can do anything. “I’m greatly under-qualified to do much of anything else.” She wondered if her pretty face welcomed ill informed hope. He wasn’t the first man who placed manic pixie dream girl expectations on her - you can do anything. She’d been doing this for over a decade now, what references was she suppose to put on her resume? Her old pimp? Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to do something else. Part of her enjoyed being a sponge for other people’s trauma. “I’m fine.” 

               Guilt doesn't flow through the heart, but along the shallow canal of his sternum. He's missed the mark here, hasn't he? Somewhere along the line, he’s lost his footing – presumably when the word sorry had the nerve to leave his mouth, as if he had any right – and something on the cusp of tentatively opening snaps shut. Kai’s knee-jerk reaction is to want to apologise all over again, but we know how that one goes –– down like a lead balloon, namely. Hope can be helpful in sensible doses, provided it doesn’t border on the blind kind, but that’s all he knows; delicate, delusional hope, the type that insults rather than bolsters.       “How could anyone hear that and not be sorry? Is it not just elementary empathy? I mean, even if it’s someone’s job, there’s still limits. Or, there should still be limits.”        Sex shouldn’t be a power grab, or about feeling as though you can do whatever the fuck you want to someone if you’ve paid for it. Like he said –– limits.

        (Then again, her job is worlds apart from anything he’s ever experienced, so what the fuck does he know anyway?)

        “You know, sometimes I think things would be easier for both of us if I could be like that guy. If I just wanted empty parking lots and silence. I want to want that.”  If he felt capable of silencing himself, he doubts he would. It’s the truth, after all, shameful as the truth often is. It’s easier, too, now that Lee’s turned away; it’s invariably easier to be honest when you don’t have to look at someone. The words feel like they’re hurtling out, seizing a chance to be heard before their speaker can reel them back in.         “Every time we meet, I think it’ll be different, that I’ll be different. That I could even just kiss you without feeling like the world would implode. But it’s like -- it’s just like my heart becomes a knot, this tangled snarl of guilt, and I can never break it. So you just end up with a man who says ‘sorry’ because it’s the easiest word in the world to him.  And I’m sorry about that.”

His hand felt calming, almost like she could fool herself into thinking she was safe here. Her hands mindlessly played at the hem of his shirt. “There are a handful of men I see all of the time, others who are passing through for a business trip or a bachelor party, others who I met when I’m dancing at the club.” She began, realizing how she never talked about this before in detail. Leeor usually avoided most conversations about it, in hopes not to make anyone uncomfortable. “This guy the other night, he’s a regular - pretty young for my usual client. I think he’s in his early 30′s. I don’t think he knows he’s younger than me.” She giggled softly. “He doesn’t wear a ring, but my cynicism always kicks in when it’s a good looking guy who could simply walk into a bar and pick a girl up. I always think they are married or have a girlfriend even if they don’t tell me.” Her eyes flicker from her hands up to him. 

“Well, he texted me last minute to meet him in 30 and he’d double my rate. He picked me up in his car, drove to an empty parking lot by the bowling alley, and we both climbed into the back seat. He probably had a long day, or something.. he pushed my head into the seat, so I was on all fours in the back. He fucked me hard for a while, and I have to put on a show, you know.. boast their ego.” She pressed her teeth into her lips as she thought for a minute. 

“He doesn’t speak to me on the drive back. Just says, next time wear black as I leave the car.” Leeor sighed softly. “Their have been better and worse, but trust me… this - you and me - it’s not weird.” 

       She paints an unsettlingly bleak picture of her profession, which gives the impression of being more like a lesson in persistent cruelty than anything else. The hand stroking her hair stills, its once-steady rhythm surrendering continuity as Kai's mind follows Lee’s into the darkness. If it's as she says, if there are better and worse nights and the incident she describes is middling in the grand scheme of things, what about those other nights?         (In short, if inhaling car-seat leather when you're being roughly fucked in a parking lot is a kindness, what does cruelty look like?)

       "Jesus, Lee. I’m so sorry."   It's so much not enough. It's so impossibly inadequate. Sorry, in the face of suffering. Sorry, like a bandaid on a bullet wound. The dormant hand at the base of her skull rediscovers a rhythm, fingers absently brushing stray pieces of hair from her face, touch gossamer-thin, as though he fears she'll shatter.        How could anyone hurt you?   Lips part in preparation to voice the sentiment, only to close when he realises he’s, yet again, falling into an us vs them mentality. Fundamentally, he hired her too. Even if he didn’t go through with anything, is he all that different from men in parking lots? Is the gulf between himself and them really so wide after all?    

             "Why do you do this? Wouldn’t something -- wouldn't anything be better? A different job. A different life. You could do anything. You can do anything."