Backstage with Eleanor and Frank

Summer heat presses down on the poolside set, the light savage and white. I sit slick with sweat, let the makeup artist paint my mouth while my stylist drags a brush through hair that sticks to my neck. Every breeze from the water makes my thighs tense. I could slip under the surface, cool off in seconds, but the dress is already taped to my skin and the camera waits. Instead, the warmth keeps building between my legs, heavier than the sun. Something about the scene—the public lounge chairs, the open glass behind us, the knowledge someone might be watching—pricks the air. My nipples tighten against silk that’s grown thin with perspiration. The pool ripples, untouched, reflecting the ache I won’t name.