Title: Notes on an Airplane
Rating: T (maybe a little M towards the end)
Summary: Miranda/Andrea. On a flight home, she can't keep her thoughts straight, her mind constantly drifting to the other woman who she hasn't seen in two years since they parted in Paris. Just a short one-shot.
Notes - 11/27 - J.M. Bernstein
Picasso - cubist representational; content is sustained, but then they flatten into the grid; mandolins; portrayed of ambrosia vollard 1910
Kandinsky - abstract becomes more representational; forms of painterly pictorialism take on hermetically expressive life of their own
"Art's autonomy is not the achievement of art's securing for itself a space free from the interference of social or political utility, but a consequence and so an expression of the fragmentation and reification of modern life."
modernism is modern art's self-consciousness of itself as an autonomous practice
Kant's epistemological theory - concepts from empirical intuitions, objects through concepts, knowledge through objects (dualisms); concepts and intuitions; sensory awareness?; conceptual ventriloquism
"…the arts have now become the bearers of our delegitimated capacity for significant sensory encounter, emphatic experience—thus they possess authority."
"…arts are the brute material inscriptions of an evacuated subjectivity"
their task: rescue our embodied experience, even in form of reminder or promise.
by law, art is expelled from empirical experience, always late. too late? art cannot reanimate dead nature.
at its highest reach, art turns cultural melancholy into form
"the invisible within the visible"
"it is the voice of the skeptic and philistine in each of us that is the real object of my analysis"
works of art master and include subjectivity in their construction—mean to align how they strike one and how things are (i.e., how we feel in knowing them and how we know in feeling them) - stanley cavell
artistic sublime seeks to haunt the mind or memory the way trauma might—presence without assimability (the safe reenactment of trauma)
the worst thing that could happen to a rothko or pollock is that it might become beautiful…
She sighed as she put her pencil down and picked up her thermos. Well, the coffee wasn't exactly piping hot, but what could you expect at 30,000 feet? Hoping that the caffeine would ease her throbbing headache, she casually looked out the window as the plane soared over the fluffy white clouds. Her mind drifted away from the notes she was taking for Runway's next feature on modern art and high fashion and to a subject she would rather pretend didn't exist than deal with on a daily basis. But somehow, the woman continued to infiltrate her thoughts. She picked up her pencil and continued to write…
I can hardly feel my fingers and toes. Fucking hate headaches. Andrea was wonderful when I had a headache—she could always see it—maybe she's just the only one who looks in my eyes. She pet my hair once…I imagined those bad-headache-brain-cells being drawn out magnetically with each stroke of her hand. I so miss those nights at the office…and not just for her company. I was never so productive in my whole life.
And I'm on an airplane. Again. And of course I'm thinking of Andrea. Last week, reading the correspondence between John and Katy dos Passos really made me think of her—"my sweet Oppossum"—and yesterday, reading about Catherine McKee in The Great Gatsby of course brought memories flooding back into my mind. I'm very tempted to drive down and see her this weekend. Say hello. Talk about life, Paris, her new job, etc. It has potential to be a 30 minute conversation… Also I want to give her some things, or perhaps just a list of things she should buy herself since gifts might seem inappropriate at this point. I just don't know what's going on, and after two years as a congressional aide… (Now that I have a new assistant, I'll admit that it would be really awkward if I bought her a gift, or if she got me something) I know Runway is a little different, but still, list. Djuna Barnes' Nightwood, Keel's Simple Diary, shit…. there's turbulence—all I can think of is telling you how I love you and
Miranda dropped her pencil as the plane lurched forward, her hands flying to her armrests. Despite all the air travel she's done in her lifetime, she couldn't help the plummeting feeling within her stomach. Her eyes, though tightly shut, flickered towards the empty seat next to her. The seat she would have been in. My god.
The plane righted and she let out a sigh of relief. No, she was not above begin grateful for her safety and her life. She bent down to retrieve the pencil and continued writing.
Andrea — you're always on my mind. Why can't I think of anyone else? Why why why? Where did I go wrong? Who did I love more? Or was loving you the problem? You always asked why/how I could love you. I felt like you made "nerdiness" seem so sexy and attractive, and you gave it depth and wit and a beautiful, loving (at times maternal) personality that was almost too human—so desirable. It was what I wanted and wanted to be simultaneously— you gave me hope in the possibility and also hope that someone could ever love that in someone else. So, I was essentially encouraged to be myself, so relaxing.
Miranda closed her notebook and tucked it neatly into her bag. She would be landing at JFK in ten minutes, and she was determined to try one more time.
She knew it was fruitless to think, "if she says no, i'll stop." She tried that, many times, and yet however true to her word she is in other aspects of her life, she simply cannot give up on Andrea. She cannot stop trying.
In less than an hour, Miranda was in the backseat of a luxury SUV. She instructed the car service to drive her to Andrea's address and wait until she returned, even if it was the next day. Hopefully, she thought, it would be the next day.
The car slowed to a stop just outside the Kennedy-Warren Apartments. Miranda knew the address by heart—she had addressed so many letters over the past year. Taking a deep breath and steeling her nerves, she walked in and called the elevator.
Miranda smiled at how easily she swept past security. Being the Editor-in-Chief of the largest fashion enterprise in the world did have its advantages. Soon, the elevator reached the fourteenth floor, and only several feet and a wooden door separated her from the love of her life.
Andrea was straining pasta over the sink when she heard a knock at her door. She hadn't been expecting anyone, and it would be quite unusual for any of her friends to come by on a Tuesday night. Perhaps it was a neighbor needing to borrow a cup of sugar or something, she thought as she approached the door.
Without checking to see who it was, she swung the door open and saw Miranda Priestly. My god, Andrea thought, the woman was stunning as ever. Andrea inhaled sharply as she searched for the right words—for any words.
"Andrea?" Miranda began, "I know you were not expecting me, but…may I come in?"
Andrea shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as she opened the door wider and took a few steps back so Miranda could enter. "Yes, of course," she said after a few moments. "I never thought you'd—I didn't think—I—" Andrea stammered, finally giving up and sighing. "It's nice to see you, Miranda. How are you?"
Miranda smiled and nodded. "It's very nice to see you, too, Andrea. I am well, thank you. And yourself?"
"Good, good, real good. I've been busy with work, you know, but it's been good." Andrea shifted her weight back and forth between her feet as she struggled to navigate the conversation. "Can I get you something to drink? Apple cider?"
"Um,"
"It's organic, unpasteurized, got it fresh yesterday,"
"Okay, thank you," Miranda said finally. She wasn't thirsty, nor did was she interested in drinking unpasteurized anything, but taking a drink would mean she could stay to finish it, and that thought appealed to Miranda. Anything that didn't involve Andrea asking her to leave.
Andrea returned from the kitchen with a glass of cider and gestured toward the living room. A few piles of books and newspapers were scattered across the couch. Andrea carefully moved one pile to the floor and took her seat as she motioned for Miranda to sit in the adjacent chair.
"So," Andrea began, "How are the girls?" She knew Miranda detested small talk, but was always willing to talk about the children. Anything, Andrea thought, to keep her emotions in check.
"Oh, they're doing wonderfully. The best at everything, you know them," Miranda said. She stared at Andrea for a moment, locking eyes and nearly getting lost in her depth. "Andrea," Miranda said, her voice slightly lower than previously. "I didn't come here to talk about the girls."
Andrea swallowed and sat up straight. "Yes, I imagine you didn't."
Miranda set her glass on a coaster on the coffee table and softly placed her hand on Andrea's knee. She could feel the shiver run through Andrea's body. "Darling, I—"
Andrea quickly pulled her knee away and turned her body away from Miranda. Her eyes gazed down at the floor. She wanted Miranda so badly—had been wanting her for over two years—but she knew Miranda was careless with people. She knew Miranda used the word "love" so often it lost its meaning. She knew. She knew Miranda was just going through a phase—and her shrink agreed with her. She knew Miranda would find some way to use it against her if she ever found out…
Andrea looked over at Miranda who sat with her head in her hands. Whether she was frustrated or hurt, Andrea couldn't tell, though she suspected La Priestly was on the verge of one of her signature tantrums.
Andrea stood from the couch and grabbed Miranda's glass from the coffee table, depositing it in the kitchen sink. Miranda watched Andrea cross the room. She was waiting for Andrea to walk to the door and ask her to leave, but something was holding her back.
"Please," Miranda said, "at least tell me what I did wrong. Was it the blue card I sent in July two years back? or the letter about touch?" Miranda pleaded.
"I don't think it's good for us to talk about this, Miranda," she said. She knew such conversations would only revive the flame within her, the flame she was desperately trying to extinguish for her own good.
Miranda silently nodded and stood, slowly walking towards the door. She would not allow Andrea to send her away, to speak words of "never" around her. Her fear was that Andrea would never want to see her again. Andrea followed her into the foyer, walking around her to reach for the doorknob. Miranda stopped, several feet short of the door and gazed into Andrea's eyes, fire burning in her own.
Without saying a word, Miranda pushed Andrea backwards into the door and anchored her lips to Andrea's, stifling the young woman's gasp, swallowing it as her own. Miranda's hands were firmly placed on Andrea's forearms, holding her in place, but yet allowing her to push back if she needed. If she wanted. Miranda acted on impulse.
She continued sucking on Andrea's lips until finally, Andrea opened her mouth for air and Miranda's tongue snaked into her mouth. She moaned as Miranda's tongue darted in and out of her mouth, dancing with her own.
Miranda pressed herself more tightly against Andrea. She needed more. She needed to taste Andrea to know this was real.
Certain Andrea wasn't moving from the door, she slowly lowered her hands to Andrea's hips, pulling them forward slightly, just enough so that their centers were pressed together. She softly broke their kiss and began peppering her neck and chest with tiny, wet kisses as Andrea's chest heaved while she tried to catch her breath.
Miranda moved her right hand off Andrea's hip and quickly unbuttoned her pants, sliding her hand down to Andrea's burning core. "Ohhh," Andrea moaned as Miranda dipped two fingers inside her wet folds, the young woman's hips bucking to meet her.
"Darling," Miranda murmured into her neck as she pumped her fingers in and out, "Can we take this to the couch…or something?" As glorious as it felt, her hand being covered in Andrea's juices, her hand was beginning to grow numb from the angle of her wrist. Miranda was worried that moving would interrupt whatever was happening, and by no means was she ready to let Andrea go so quickly.
Andrea moaned something unintelligible as she arched her back, her eyes gazing up at the ceiling as she panted. Moving her left hand from Andrea's hip, Miranda finished unzipping the young woman's pants and pushed them down around her ankles, slithering down her body. Andrea had enough sense to raise one foot off the floor so Miranda could slip it off her leg completely. As she grew more breathless, her moans grew louder. Miranda pressed her lips to Andrea's slick folds and began sucking on her clitoris as she inhaled Andrea's scent and explored her core with her fingers.
Curling her fingers, Miranda felt Andrea's g-spot and applied pressure to the spongy tissue. Andrea's body jerked sharply as Miranda felt her muscles clenching around her fingers, holding them in place, driving them deeper. Her juices flowed freely, gushing out and trailing down Miranda's arm. The older woman drank in the come as Andrea's body stiffened again, another orgasm ripping through her.
Miranda slowly pulled her fingers out and trailed kisses down Andrea's inner thighs. The young woman was flushed and her hair was damp around her face, creating several curls to frame her face. Her eyes were still closed. Miranda stood and wrapped her arms around her, softly whispering into her ear as she pulled her close. "You are such a beautiful creature, Andrea," she said. "And I love you so very much—more than you'll ever know."
She led Andrea into the bedroom, where they sat on the edge of the bed. Turning to look at her once more, Miranda saw tears pooling in her large brown eyes. "Darling?" she asked, brushing her hand along Andrea's cheek, "What's wrong? Please don't cry."
"You—" Andrea said, "It's you….this."
"Did I hurt you, Andrea? Please, talk to me," Miranda pleaded, concern evident in her voice.
"No, no I'm fine. I'm more than fine." She sighed deeply as she raised her head, looking Miranda square in the eye. "I didn't believe you. I swore you would end up hurting me—and who knows, you still might—I thought I knew you, I thought I was saving myself the greater pain. But all I managed to do—"
"Shh," Miranda interrupted, taking up Andrea's hands in her own. "It doesn't matter anymore," she said, bringing her hands up to her lips. "That's all in the past. We all would have acted differently in hindsight. What matters now is this…you."
Andrea pulled her hands away and searched Miranda's eyes. "You—you mean that? Just like that you're going to forgive me?"
"Darling, I see nothing to forgive. Am I to forgive you for trying to protect your heart? For reserving your trust? I think even the tabloids got it right that I keep myself buttoned up."
"God, Miranda, all that I must have put you through. You know, not a day has gone by since I left Runway that I haven't thought about you, wondered what you were doing, longed for you."
"Same here, Andrea. Just a few hours ago I was on a flight, returning from Paris. I was trying to take notes for an upcoming shoot, but my notes kept drifting to you. When we hit a rough patch of turbulence, all I could think about was you, seeing you one last time, telling you how I loved you. It's quite embarrassing, actually, that my own daughters did not even cross my mind."
Andrea shook her head in disbelief. "So, this is real? I'm not dreaming?" she asked.
"No, darling. This is very much reality."
"And you're calling me 'darling'—wow, I—for how long can you stay?"
"As long as it takes…"
"You mean you'll move to D.C.?!"
Miranda sighed. "If that's what it takes, then yes, I will go wherever you are. But," she added, "I do sincerely hope that you find it agreeable to return to NYC. In the few short hours I've been here, I've seen more cheap, unflattering, poorly-made pantsuits than I ever care to see again."
Andrea smiled and wrapped her arms around Miranda. "Oh, I've missed you so much," she sighed. "Can you stay tonight?"
"There is nowhere else I'd rather be," Miranda said as she snuggled against Andrea's body. "This is perfect."
"Mmm," Andrea said, "Perfect. Finally."
the end 3