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.