Don't Look Down

I am sitting on my deck in Silver Lake today and the air is dry, that brittle California heat that smells like eucalyptus and brushfires, but when I close my eyes and think about that summer in Manhattan it’s like my skin remembers a different kind of pressure, a weight that had nothing to do with the atmosphere and everything to do with the woman standing by the edge of a Chelsea penthouse. I was twenty-eight and I thought I was the protagonist of a story I hadn't even started writing yet, carrying around a finished pilot and a sense of entitlement that only comes from being the smartest person in a small room, but Julianne made me realize I wasn't even a background extra in her world. I found the notebook yesterday in a box labeled 'NYC - 2014' and the handwriting is feverish, the ink smudged by sweat and whatever cheap rye I was drinking back then, and reading it now feels like watching a rough cut of a film that was far too beautiful for the budget we had. August 12th. The heat in this city is a physical presence, it’s a person you didn't invite to the party who won't stop touching you, and I am sitting in this walk-up in Astoria writing this because I can’t sleep after seeing her again at the gallery opening tonight. Julianne Thorne. The name sounds like something a screenwriter would invent for a woman who breaks hearts for sport, but she is real and she is forty-six and she looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s already solved but might keep around just to see if the pieces fit differently in the dark. She was wearing this cream-colored linen suit that looked like it had never known a wrinkle and she stood in the center of the room while everyone else circled her like they were caught in her orbit, and when our eyes met over a tray of lukewarm prosecco I felt my heart do this strange, cinematic stutter-step. She didn't look away, she just arched an eyebrow, a silent challenge that told me she knew exactly how much I wanted to impress her and how much I was failing at it, and then she walked over and asked me if I always looked this disappointed by free alcohol and I couldn't even find a line, I just stood there like a fool while she laughed and the sound of it was low and rich, like a cello played in a room with perfect acoustics. August 15th. It’s nearly three in the morning and the party is still happening downstairs, I can hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards of the penthouse but I’m out here on the terrace because the air inside was too thick with perfume and desperation and the way Julianne was looking at me was making it hard to breathe. We’ve been talking for three hours, or maybe it’s been five minutes, time doesn't work the same way when you’re standing next to a woman like that, a woman who has lived three lifetimes while you were still trying to figure out which end of the cigar to light. She’s leaning against the stone parapet now and the city is laid out behind her like a circuit board, millions of lights pulsing with a nervous energy that matches the way my hands are shaking in my pockets, and she’s telling me about the first time she saw the skyline before the new towers went up. She has this way of speaking where her voice drops at the end of a sentence, inviting you to lean in, to come closer, to give up whatever ground you thought you were holding. I told her I was moving back to LA in a month and she just smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of her mouth, and said that California was for people who wanted to be seen, while New York was for people who wanted to be felt, and then she reached out and adjusted my collar, her fingers lingering against the skin of my neck for a second too long. Her skin was cool despite the humidity and she smelled like sandalwood and something sharp, like ginger, and I felt the heat of her through the fabric of her dress as she stepped closer, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the radiation of her body against mine. August 15th - later. I don't know how we ended up in the library but the door is heavy oak and it’s shut now, muffling the sound of the party until it’s just a dull roar in the distance, and the only light comes from a single lamp on the desk that’s throwing long, dramatic shadows across the rows of leather-bound books. Julianne is sitting on the edge of the mahogany desk, her legs crossed, the slit in her navy silk dress falling open to reveal a length of thigh that looks like polished marble in the amber light, and she’s watching me with a look that is part predator and part teacher. She told me to pour her a drink and when I handed it to her our fingers brushed and the contact felt like a live wire, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity that made my vision blur for a split second. She took a sip of the scotch, her eyes never leaving mine, and then she set the glass down and reached out, her hand curling around my tie, pulling me toward her until I was standing between her knees, the silk of her dress smooth and cool against my trousers. I could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the history of her smiles and her sorrows, and they made her so much more beautiful than the girls my own age who look like they’ve been airbrushed into anonymity. She looked at my mouth and then back at my eyes and she said, 'You’ve been staring at me all night, Julian. Are you going to keep looking, or are you going to do something worth writing about?' and the way she said my name made it sound like a secret, a word only she was allowed to use. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird and I reached out, my hands finding her waist, the curve of her hips under the silk feeling so much more substantial and real than I had imagined, and she let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-growl. I leaned in and kissed her and it wasn't a movie kiss, it was hungry and messy and urgent, our teeth clashing for a second before her mouth opened under mine and I tasted the scotch and the lime and the sheer, overwhelming heat of her. She pulled me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist, dragging me into the space between her thighs, and I could feel the dampness of her, the way she was already reacting to me, her body humming like a machine that had been waiting for the right key to turn. Her hands were in my hair, her nails scratching against my scalp as she deepened the kiss, her tongue searching for mine with a confidence that made my knees weak, and I felt like I was drowning in her, in the scent of her and the sound of her breath catching in her throat. I pulled back just enough to look at her and her eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, and she looked at me with a raw, unshielded intensity that made me realize this wasn't a game to her, or if it was, the stakes were higher than I could afford. She reached down and began to unbutton my shirt, her fingers moving with a practiced, steady rhythm, and I watched the way her chest rose and fell, the swell of her breasts above the neckline of her dress, the skin there flushed a soft, pale pink. I knelt down between her legs, my hands sliding up the smooth skin of her thighs, the silk of her underwear a tiny, lacy barrier that I wanted to tear away with my teeth, and when I pressed my face against the heat of her, she arched her back, her fingers clenching in my hair. 'Don't stop,' she whispered, her voice a ragged thread of sound, 'don't you dare stop now,' and I felt the vibration of her words through my skull as I kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, the scent of her becoming the only thing in the world that mattered. I used my thumb to pull the lace aside and she was slick, a shimmering heat that made my head spin, and when I touched her she made a sound that I will never forget, a low, guttural moan that seemed to come from her very bones. I looked up at her, my chin resting on the silk of her dress, and saw the way she was looking at me, her head thrown back, her throat exposed, her eyes half-closed in a trance of pure, focused sensation. The city was still out there, the millions of people and the noise and the lights, but in this room, in this moment, there was only the friction of skin and the sound of our breathing and the terrifying, beautiful realization that I was about to be destroyed by a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. I moved my hand higher, my fingers finding the core of her, and she shuddered, her whole body tensing as she leaned forward to whisper something in my ear that made the blood in my veins turn to fire. 'Don't look down,' she hissed, her breath a hot, humid gale against my ear, 'don't you dare look down, Julian, you look at me while you do it, you look at what you’re making me feel,' and her voice was a command, a director’s note delivered from the center of a storm, so I kept my eyes locked on hers as my fingers pushed deeper into that slick, terrifying heat. She was so wet it was almost a sound, a quiet, rhythmic friction that felt like the only heartbeat in the room, and I watched her face transform, the mask of the gallery-dweller and the socialite melting away into something raw and jagged and honest. Her pupils were so wide they swallowed the blue of her irises and she looked at me with a hunger that felt like a challenge, like she was daring me to keep up, to not be the boy she thought I was. I moved my thumb against her, finding that hard, hidden knot of nerves, and she let out a sound that wasn't a moan but a sharp, sudden intake of air, her back arching so hard I thought she’d snap. 'Is this worth writing about?' I asked, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel, and for a second I saw a flash of the old Julianne, a flicker of amusement behind the haze of pleasure, but then I pressed harder, my knuckles brushing the lace of her underwear, and she grabbed my wrists with a strength that surprised me. 'Shut up,' she gasped, 'just... shut up and get me out of this dress.' I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of water, and I reached for the zipper at the back of her navy silk. It was one of those invisible ones, a tiny silver tooth hidden in a seam, and my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't get a grip on it. She waited, her head bowed, the nape of her neck exposed and pale, a target I wanted to bite until I left a mark she’d have to hide with a scarf for a week. Finally, the zipper gave way with a soft, mechanical hiss, and the silk fell away, pooling around her waist and then sliding down her legs to the floor, leaving her in nothing but that scrap of black lace and a pair of heels that made her look like she was standing on a pedestal. Her skin was the color of heavy cream in the lamplight, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her collarbones that I wanted to lick off, to taste the salt and the heat of her. I reached for the clasp of her bra and she pushed my hands away, reaching back herself and unhooking it with a casual, practiced flick of her fingers, and then she was bare, her breasts full and heavy, the nipples dark and tight against the cool air of the library. I felt like I was watching a scene I hadn't been cleared to film, something too private and too expensive for my pay grade, but then she reached out and grabbed my belt buckle and the reality of it hit me in the gut. She pulled me toward her, her knuckles grazing the bulge in my trousers, and she didn't look away, she didn't blink, she just unfastened the button and slid the zipper down with a slow, deliberate intent that made my breath catch in my throat. She reached inside, her hand cool and then suddenly, shockingly hot as she wrapped her fingers around me, and I groaned, my eyes closing in spite of her earlier command. 'I told you,' she whispered, her hand moving with a rhythm that was already perfectly synced to the pounding of my heart, 'don't look down. Look at me.' I opened my eyes and saw her smiling, a small, knowing curve of her lips that told me she knew exactly the kind of power she was wielding. She wasn't just a woman in a library; she was the climax of every story I’d ever tried to tell, the one part I could never get right on the page. She slid off the desk, her feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, and she pushed my trousers down to my ankles, leaving me standing there exposed while she stayed perfectly composed, even in her nakedness. She knelt before me, her hair falling over her face, and when she took me into her mouth I felt a jolt of such pure, unadulterated sensation that I had to reach out and grab the edge of the mahogany desk to keep from falling over. The wood was cold and hard under my palms, a grounding wire for the electricity she was pumping through me. She was talented, she was thorough, and she was doing it with a focus that felt almost like an interrogation, her tongue and teeth working together to find the exact frequency that would break me. I reached down and tangled my fingers in her hair, pulling her head back so I could see her, and she looked up at me with a wet, messy grin, a drop of my own heat clinging to the corner of her mouth. 'Julianne,' I said, and it was a plea, a prayer, a white flag. She stood up, her body pressing against mine, the friction of our skin creating a static charge that felt like it might set the books on fire. She guided me back toward the desk, her hands on my shoulders, pushing me until I was sitting on the edge where she had been just minutes before. She stepped between my legs, her thighs sliding against mine, and she reached down to guide me into her. She was so slick, so ready, that I slid home with a single, smooth motion that made us both gasp, the sound echoing off the leather-bound spines of the classics. She was tight, a velvet vice that gripped me as she began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, agonizing circle that made my vision go grainy. I reached out and grabbed her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and I pulled her harder against me, the impact of our bodies a dull, thudding beat that drowned out the distant bass of the party. She threw her head back, her throat a long, elegant line, and she began to move faster, her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts that sounded like a countdown. 'There it is,' she muttered, her eyes squeezed shut, 'there... right there.' I wasn't a screenwriter anymore; I was a passenger on a train that had lost its brakes. I followed her lead, my body reacting to hers with a desperate, animal intensity, my hands moving up to her breasts, kneading the soft skin as she leaned over me, her hair brushing against my face like silk. She smelled like the scotch we’d been drinking and the ginger perfume she wore, a combination that felt like it was being etched into my DNA. Every time she came down on me, I felt the world outside the library—the pilot I hadn't sold, the shitty apartment in Queens, the pressure of being twenty-eight and broke—fade into a soft-focus blur. All that mattered was the weight of her, the way she was shaking, the way she was whispering my name like it was the answer to a question she’d been asking for twenty years. I felt it coming, that sudden, terrifying build-up that you can’t pause or rewrite, and I tried to hold back, to make it last, but Julianne wouldn't let me. She leaned in, her teeth grazing my earlobe, and she whispered something so filthy, so specific, that I felt my resolve shatter like a cheap lens. She was coming, too, her body tensing, her internal muscles pulsing around me in a rhythm that was impossible to resist, and when she finally broke, it was with a long, low cry that she muffled against my shoulder. I followed her over the edge, my whole body convulsing as I came into her, a deep, heavy release that felt like it was draining the very marrow from my bones. We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner and the distant, fading siren of an ambulance somewhere on 7th Avenue. The air in the room was thick and heavy, the kind of atmosphere that makes you feel like you’re underwater, and I felt the slow, steady drip of sweat down my spine. Julianne didn't pull away; she stayed wrapped around me, her head resting on my chest, her breath finally slowing down to a normal pace. 'You're a good actor, Julian,' she said finally, her voice regained its cool, sharp edge, but there was a softness there I hadn't heard before. 'I wasn't acting,' I said, and I meant it. She pulled back then, her eyes searching mine, and she reached out to brush a stray hair from my forehead. She looked at me not as a puzzle or a prize, but as a person, and for a second, the age gap between us felt like a bridge instead of a canyon. Then she stood up, her nakedness suddenly feeling like a costume she was ready to change out of, and she began to gather her clothes from the floor. 'The party’s ending,' she said, stepping back into her dress with a grace that made me feel clumsy just watching her. 'You should go before the light changes. New York is always uglier at dawn.' I dressed in silence, my hands still a little unsteady, my mind already trying to process what had just happened into a narrative I could understand. I wanted to say something profound, something that would make her remember me when I was back in California, but the words felt like they belonged in a different movie. When I was finished, I stood by the door, the heavy oak between me and the hallway, and I looked back at her. She was standing by the window, the city lights reflected in the glass, and she looked like a ghost, a beautiful, high-definition memory. 'Will I see you again?' I asked. She didn't turn around. 'Probably not. But you’ll write about it. And that’s what you really wanted, isn't it?' I didn't have an answer for her, so I just opened the door and walked out, the noise of the elevator and the cool air of the lobby feeling like a slap in the face. August 16th. I’m on the train back to Astoria and the sun is coming up over the East River, turning the water into a sheet of dirty gold. My skin still smells like her and my chest feels hollow, like she took something out of me and replaced it with a weight I’m going to have to carry for a long time. She was right, of course. I’m already thinking about the dialogue, the way the light hit the mahogany, the sound of her breath in that quiet library. I’m already turning her into a character, into a scene, into a story I can tell myself so I don't have to feel the sting of how much I wanted her to stay. I’m leaving for LA in two weeks. The pilot is finished, and everyone tells me it’s good, that it’s the kind of thing that gets made. But as I watch the skyline retreat, I realize that nothing I ever write will be as real as the way she looked at me when she told me not to look down. I think I finally understand what she meant about New York. It’s not about being seen. It’s about being felt, and right now, I feel like I’ve been bruised down to the soul. September 1st. Packing the last of the boxes. I found a strand of dark hair on one of my shirts and I held it for a minute before I let the wind from the window take it. I’m moving to a city of shadows and sunlight, a place where everything is manufactured and nothing is supposed to last. But I’ll keep this notebook. I’ll keep these pages as a reminder that for one night in August, I wasn't just a kid with a script. I was part of something that didn't need a filter or a second take. Don't look down. I’m sitting on my deck in Silver Lake today, ten years later, and the heat is still the same, but the man who wrote those words feels like a stranger. I did sell that pilot. I wrote the movies. I became the person I thought I wanted to be. But sometimes, when the light hits the glass of rye just right, I’m back in that library, the scent of sandalwood and ginger rising up to meet me, and I can still feel the weight of her against my chest. I never saw her again, but she’s in every line I write, every character who’s too smart for their own good, every ending that doesn't quite feel like a resolution. I close the notebook and the dust dances in the California sun. I’m thirty-eight and I’ve learned that the most important stories aren't the ones you sell. They’re the ones you keep in a box labeled 'NYC - 2014', the ones that still make your heart do that strange, cinematic stutter-step when you remember the way the world looked before you knew how it ended. I look out at the hills, at the sprawling, beautiful lie of Los Angeles, and I realize she was right about one more thing. I did write about it. And it was the only thing I ever did that was worth the paper it was printed on.

You might also enjoy

The Vintage of Unspoken Desires

The Alchemist's Shadow in the Glass

The Architecture of Complete Surrender