I’m watching the way the condensation on her gin and tonic drips onto her thumb and I’m thinking about the script I’m supposed to be finishing.
12 min read·2,269 words
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1.
Everything in Cabo is too bright and the sun is bouncing off the white stucco of the resort like a bounce board held too close to a lead's face and I’m squinting through my Ray-Bans trying to remember if I actually like my friend Ben enough to suffer through a three-day destination wedding in ninety-degree humidity while I’ve got a second-round polish due to a producer who thinks 'subtext' is a brand of sandwich meat. I’m standing by the infinity pool at the welcome mixer and the air smells like expensive sunblock and salt and that specific brand of Mexican lime they use to mask the taste of cheap tequila and then I see her and the frame just freezes because Elena is standing by the bar and she’s the mother of the bride and she looks like a fucking movie star from the seventies, the kind that didn't need CGI to look dangerous. She’s forty-eight or maybe fifty and she has these fine lines around her eyes that look like a map of places I want to go and she’s wearing a silk slip dress the color of an espresso shot and she’s looking at the crowd of twenty-somethings like they’re a particularly boring nature documentary. I’ve known Ben since college and I’ve seen his mother-in-law-to-be at dinners before but never like this, never out of the context of a suburban living room and suddenly the contrast is dialed up and she’s the only thing in focus while the rest of the wedding party is just a blurry background plate of pastel linens and spray tans.
2.
It’s the rehearsal dinner and the wind is coming off the Sea of Cortez and kicking up the edges of the tablecloths and everyone is three drinks in and Ben is making a speech about his beautiful bride Claire and it’s sweet and it’s standard and I’m sitting two seats down from Elena who is nursing a mezcal neat and she leans over and her shoulder brushes mine and the skin is warm and smells like some kind of dark vanilla that isn’t sweet at all and she whispers into my ear that if she has to hear one more story about how they met in a spin class she’s going to walk directly into the ocean and not come back. I laugh because her voice has this low, smoky grit to it like a late-night radio host in a noir film and I tell her I’ve got a script in my bag that’s worse than this and she looks at me, really looks at me, and her eyes are this amber color that catches the tiki torch light and she says she’d rather read my script than hear the DJ play ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ one more time. We end up at the end of the long wooden table away from the toasts and she tells me she’s tired of being the ‘graceful matriarch’ and I tell her she looks more like the woman who burns the villa down for the insurance money and she laughs and the sound hits me in the chest like a well-timed jump cut and I realize I’m staring at her mouth and she knows I’m staring and she doesn't look away, she just takes another slow sip of her mezcal and lets the tip of her tongue trace the rim of the glass and my heart starts doing a drum fill against my ribs.
3.
Saturday. The wedding is a blur of white lace and sweat and the kind of heat that makes the air look like it’s vibrating and Claire looks beautiful but I’m watching Elena in the front row wearing a champagne-colored dress that fits her like a second skin and when she stands up to give her daughter away I see the way the silk pulls across her hips and I’m losing my fucking mind. The reception is a marathon of polite conversation and avoiding the open bar until the sun goes down because I don't want to be the guy who gets sloppy but then the moon comes up and the party moves to the terrace and I find her by the railing looking out at the dark water and she looks tired and she looks electrified and she says ‘Leo, get me out of here before I have to dance with my ex-husband’ and I don't even think, I just grab her hand and her fingers are small and strong and we slip past the catering staff and the drunk groomsmen and we head toward the villas and the path is lit by low amber lanterns and the sound of the surf is drowning out the bass from the dance floor and my hand is sweating against hers but she doesn't let go, she actually grips me tighter and her pace is urgent and she’s leading the way to Villa 14.
4.
We don't even turn the lights on. The room is filled with that blue-grey moonlight that makes everything look like a dream sequence and the second the door clicks shut she’s against me and her mouth is on mine and it’s not a polite wedding kiss, it’s a collision, it’s the kind of kiss that tastes like desperation and mezcal and three days of holding back. Her hands are in my hair and my hands are on her waist and she’s smaller than she looked but she feels solid and real and her skin is so hot it feels like she’s running a fever and I’m kissing her neck and she’s making this sound, this low, guttural vibration in her throat that I want to record and loop forever. I reach for the zipper on the back of that champagne dress and it slides down with a hiss and the silk pools at her feet and she’s standing there in just a black lace thong and her body is incredible, she has these soft curves and her breasts are heavy and the nipples are dark and hard and I drop to my knees because I need to taste her and I press my face into her stomach and she smells like the sun and I pull her thong down and she steps out of it and I’m looking at her pussy and it’s neat and trimmed and she’s already wet, I can see the shimmer of it in the moonlight and I use my tongue to find her clit and she gasps and grabs my shoulders so hard her nails dig into my skin and I’m eating her out while she’s standing there shaking and the sound of the ocean is crashing against the cliffs outside and it matches the rhythm of my tongue and she’s moaning ‘Oh god, Leo, yes, right there’ and her voice is breaking and I can feel her legs starting to give out so I stand up and lift her and she wraps her legs around my waist and her pussy is soaking wet against my stomach and I carry her to the bed.
I’m fumbling with my belt and my jeans and she’s helping me, her hands are frantic and she pulls my cock out and it’s thumping, it’s so hard it hurts and she wraps her hand around it and just looks at it for a second and then she looks at me and says ‘I’ve been thinking about this since the rehearsal dinner’ and she slides her mouth over the head of my dick and I almost come right then because she knows exactly what she’s doing, she’s using her tongue and she’s sucking the head and she’s looking up at me through her lashes and I’m watching her cheeks hollow out as she takes more of me and I have to pull her off because I want to be inside her so badly I can’t breathe. I lay her back on the cool white sheets and I spread her legs and she’s so open and so ready and I guide my cock to her entrance and she’s so wet I slide right in, all the way to the hilt, and she let out a cry that isn't a scream but a release and her pussy is tight, it’s hot, it’s gripping me like it’s trying to pull me deeper and I start to move and the rhythm is fast and messy and perfect and our skin is slapping together and the sound is the only thing in the room besides our breathing. I’m watching her face and her eyes are closed and her head is tossed back and I can see the muscles in her neck straining and I reach down and find her clit while I’m fucking her and she starts to peak, her internal muscles pulsing around my dick in these rhythmic waves and she’s sobbing my name and I can’t hold back anymore, I’m seeing stars and the world is narrowing down to the point where her body meets mine and I come so hard I think my heart is going to stop, just pumping into her, filling her up while she’s still coming, her whole body vibrating against the mattress until we both just collapse into a pile of tangled limbs and damp skin and the silence returns to the room but it’s a different kind of silence now, it’s heavy and thick and honest.
5.
Sunday morning at the airport is a nightmare of hangovers and lost luggage and I’m standing in the security line feeling like I’ve got a secret taped to the inside of my skull. I see her with Claire and Ben and she’s wearing oversized sunglasses and a linen tunic and she looks like the perfect mother of the bride again, composed and elegant and untouchable, but when she catches my eye across the terminal she doesn't do the polite nod. She just looks at me for three long seconds, long enough for the air between us to turn into a high-voltage wire, and then she slowly licks her bottom lip and turns back to her daughter and I have to sit down because my knees feel like they’re made of water. I spend the flight back to LAX trying to write but the dialogue is all wrong because every time I close my eyes I’m back in Villa 14 and I can feel the weight of her thighs on my shoulders and I can taste the mezcal on her tongue and I realize I’m not going to be able to just walk away from this like it was a weekend fling because Elena isn't a subplot, she’s the whole fucking movie.
6.
Three weeks later and I’m back in my apartment in Silver Lake and the smog is thick and the traffic on Sunset is a crawl and I’m staring at my laptop when my phone buzzes and it’s an unknown number and I answer it and it’s her. She doesn't say hello, she just says ‘I’m at the Chateau Marmont and I’m bored and I’m thinking about that script you mentioned’ and I’m out the door before she can even give me the room number. I drive like a maniac and I find her in a suite overlooking the hills and she’s wearing a silk robe and she has a bottle of champagne on ice and she looks at me and says ‘You took your time’ and I don't even answer, I just kick the door shut and I’ve got her against the wall and her robe is open and I’m burying my face in her hair and she’s laughing but it’s a hungry sound. We don't talk about Ben or Claire or the fact that this is a terrible idea, we just lose ourselves in the heat of it again and it’s even more intense than the first time because now the adrenaline of the wedding is gone and it’s just us, just this strange, urgent magnetic pull that doesn't care about logic or age or the fact that I should be working. We spend the whole night together and I learn the curve of her spine and the way she likes to be bitten on the shoulder and the way she sighs when I finally slide into her and it feels like we’re building a world that only exists behind closed doors in expensive hotel rooms.
7.
Two months pass and we’ve become a habit, a beautiful, dangerous habit that involves late-night texts and mid-afternoon meet-ups in places where no one knows us and today we’re at a beach house in Malibu that a friend of hers owns and the sun is setting and the light is that perfect, honey-thick golden hour glow that every DP in town tries to replicate. We’re sitting on the deck and she’s leaning against me and the Pacific is churning below us and she says ‘This can’t go on forever, you know’ and I know she’s right but I also know that I don't care because I’ve never felt this awake in my life. I look at her and the light is hitting her face and she looks beautiful and complicated and I tell her that I’m rewriting the ending of my script and she asks how it ends and I pull her into my lap and I kiss her and I say ‘It doesn't end, it just cuts to black while things are still good’ and she smiles and pulls me toward the bedroom and for once, I don't care about the subtext, I just want the scene.
