FINE LINES - A Screenplay
Written by
Jay Gore
EXT. BROOKLYN STREET - DAY
The familiar rhythm of Brooklyn pulses—CAR HORNS blaring, STREET VENDORS calling out, the distant clatter of a subway train. The air is crisp, carrying the aroma of fresh coffee and baked bread from a nearby cafe.
A MAN, ethnically ambiguous, mid-40s, walks down the street, dressed in a black sports jacket over a gray hoodie, his SHAGGY HAIR visible beneath a worn BASEBALL CAP. His eyes, sharp but softened with time, scan the familiar neighborhood. His steps are steady, confident, as he weaves through the bustling crowd.
As he passes a bodega, he glances at his REFLECTION in the glass—a brief pause.
CLOSE ON: His face, now defined, strong, and comfortable in its contours. A look of quiet reflection settles in his eyes. Five years ago, these streets were foreign to him. He had just arrived in Brooklyn, lost and unmoored—homeless, jobless, missing Manhattan, his family, and the home he once knew.
EXT. BROOKLYN STREET - FIVE YEARS AGO – NIGHT
The same MAN, younger and weary, stands alone on the sidewalk. He's carrying a worn backpack, eyes filled with uncertainty and longing. The city around him feels cold and unwelcoming.
He looks across the river, the lights of MANHATTAN twinkling in the distance. A wave of homesickness washes over him—memories of family dinners, friends, and a life that now feels worlds away.
BACK TO PRESENT:
EXT. BROOKLYN STREET - DAY
Suddenly, a small hand tugs at his arm.
BOY
(offscreen, tugging)
Baba, what are you doing?
The MAN looks down, his moment of reflection broken. Two small CHILDREN, around 5 and 7 years old, stare up at him with wide, curious eyes. The boy, 7, is wrapped in a bright yellow coat, holding a small toy car. The girl, 5, is wrapped in a bright blue coat, holding a small backpack.
MAN
(smiling softly)
Just thinking, buddy.
He crouches down to meet his son’s gaze. The boy tilts his head, inspecting his father's face with the same intense focus.
GIRL
Are we going to the park now?
The MAN ruffles his son’s hair and stands, the weight of the past lifting from his shoulders.
MAN
Yeah, let's go.
He takes his children’s hands, leading them forward through the streets that they now call home.
CUT TO:
EXT. BROOKLYN STREET - CONTINUOUS
They walk together, the MAN and his SON, and his DAUGHTER, blending into the cityscape. The Brooklyn that once felt foreign is now a place where they’ve built a life—one step, one day, one memory at a time.
FADE OUT.
The screen goes black.
Suddenly, the piercing ring of a TIBETAN SINGING BOWL breaks the silence.
TITLE SEQUENCE:
On the black screen, millions of tiny threads begin to weave together, slowly forming intricate patterns. The threads move with precision, as if guided by an unseen force, coming together to create a title:
FINE LINES
The words shimmer with life, each letter composed of delicate, interwoven strands.
An INVISIBLE HAND enters the frame and gently pulls at an exposed thread in the corner of the "F."
The threads begin to unravel.
First slowly, then rapidly, as the title disassembles before our eyes, collapsing into a chaotic tangle of loose threads. The screen is left empty, void of the title that was once so carefully constructed.
FADE OUT.
The screen goes black.
The resonant RINGING of the TIBETAN SINGING BOWL continues. Its tone lingers, vibrating through the void. Slowly, the RINGING fades, replaced by the faint echo of disco music rising in the distance.
CUT TO:
EXT. MANHATTAN - 22 YEARS AGO - NIGHT
Aerial shot of Manhattan—vibrant and bustling, the city glittering under the night sky. We soar over neon-lit streets, the quick pace of traffic and the dazzling lights showcasing the energy of the city that never sleeps.
A SUPER appears on the screen:
"2002"
The music grows clearer, and we realize it’s "HEART OF GLASS" by BLONDIE.
The rhythmic beat pulses softly at first, then fully envelopes the soundscape. The music swells, syncing perfectly with the quick pace of the city pulsing with life. As we descend toward the Lower East Side, the nightlife blends in a dazzling blur.
CUT TO:
INT. DISCO-THEMED SUSHI RESTAURANT - LOWER EAST SIDE - NIGHT
The neon glow bathes the interior. Shimmering disco balls spin above, casting beams of light, reflecting off metallic fixtures. The vibe is chic and playful, a retro-futuristic twist on 2000s nightlife.
At a table, two ATTRACTIVE WOMEN, both in their early 20s, sit laughing and chatting. One sips a cocktail. The shimmering light from the disco balls moves across her face.
The energy is electric—the buzz of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and Blondie’s "Heart of Glass" filling the space.
She leans in closer, laughter blending with the music, the joy of the night palpable in her expression. The camera lingers on the scene, capturing the carefree, fleeting beauty of a promising first date...
The camera follows as the two women, LAYLA and KAYLEIGH, engage in lively conversation.
LAYLA
(raising her glass)
"You want a drink?"
KAYLEIGH
(shaking her head)
"No, I’m driving."
LAYLA
(surprised, impressed)
You have a car? In Manhattan?
KAYLEIGH
(grinning)
Yeah, I’m fancy like that.
LAYLA’S eyes widen with a playful nod, as if acknowledging the rarity of someone owning a car in the city.
LAYLA
Very fancy.
The conversation lulls for a beat as they exchange knowing smiles.
Quick cut to the two women laughing as a WAITRESS places sushi on their table.
KAYLEIGH
(grinning)
"You’ve never been to a gay bar before?"
LAYLA
(laughing)
"No."
KAYLEIGH leans in, playful energy in her eyes.
KAYLEIGH
(grabbing her hand)
"C’mon! Let’s go."
Music swells as KAYLEIGH pulls LAYLA from the table. LAYLA laughs, stumbling behind as they rush out of the restaurant. "Heart of Glass" continues as we transition into a new scene.
INT. GAY CLUB - NIGHT
A kaleidoscope of flashing lights fills the screen. Music pulses, and a GOGO DANCER spins onstage, gyrating to the beat. LAYLA and KAYLEIGH push through the crowded dance floor, hands still linked. The vibe is intoxicating—neon lights, glittering outfits, and bodies moving to the rhythm.
LAYLA
(half-shouting over the music)
"I don’t think I’m a lesbian!"
KAYLEIGH smirks, leaning in closer.
KAYLEIGH
But you're attracted to me?
LAYLA hesitates, glancing at KAYLEIGH before nodding.
LAYLA
Yeah, but I don’t think I’m gay—maybe this is just a phase!
KAYLEIGH laughs, unbothered by the uncertainty. She nudges LAYLA playfully.
KAYLEIGH
(grinning)
I don’t know—let’s get some boobs in your face and find out!
Quick cut: A GOGO DANCER moves toward them, provocatively dancing in front of LAYLA. LAYLA, too shy, blushes and looks away. KAYLEIGH, laughing, jumps in, motorboating the dancer with an exaggerated gesture. The dancer laughs along, and LAYLA looks at KAYLEIGH, both amused and intrigued.
EXT. GAY CLUB - NIGHT
The two women stumble out of the club, still buzzing from the energy. They stop, catching their breath under a streetlamp. The night air is cool, but their cheeks are flushed from laughter and the excitement of the night.
They walk down the street, shoulder to shoulder, their connection undeniable. They stop for a moment, gazing at each other, the loud nightlife fading into a background hum.
LAYLA
(softly)
I really like you, Kayleigh.
KAYLEIGH smiles, leaning in just a little closer.
KAYLEIGH
I really like you, too.
There’s a beat. Their smiles widen.
LAYLA
See you again?
KAYLEIGH
Absolutely.
FADE OUT.
The screen goes black.
We hear another resonant RING of the TIBETAN SINGING BOWL vibrate through the void.
EXT. MANHATTAN 5TH AVENUE DOORMAN APARTMENT - MORNING (2018)
A stillness hangs over the quiet morning. The sky is soft, the sun just beginning to rise over the city.
INT. MANHATTAN 5TH AVENUE DOORMAN APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM
LUKE (the man from the earlier scenes) sits cross-legged on the floor, meditating. His breath is steady, his posture calm. This is his morning ritual.
From the adjacent room, we hear the soft shuffling of little feet. THE TODDLER BOY, about 2 or 3 years old, enters, still rubbing his eyes from sleep.
He toddles over to his father, standing in front of him for a beat, curious but not yet saying anything.
The man opens one eye, noticing his son’s presence. A soft smile forms on his lips. Without breaking his pose, he gently pats his lap, inviting the boy to sit.
The boy climbs onto his father’s lap, mimicking his cross-legged posture with soft, restless movements, trying to imitate what he sees.
Though the boy doesn’t fully grasp the significance of what’s happening, there’s an innocent joy in his effort to join in. His tiny hands rest clumsily on his knees, and he attempts to close his eyes like his father, though his fidgeting reveals his lack of understanding. The father opens his eyes again, looking down at his son with quiet affection. The boy peeks his eyes open, grinning up at his father.
In the background, we see the bedroom door slightly ajar. Inside, the MAN’S WIFE is still asleep, a BABY nestled beside her in the crook of her arm.
LUKE
Should we go wake up mommy and baby?
Fine Lines - A Novel
Excerpt from “Fucking Audrey”
by
Jay Gore
Dear Audrey,
The morning after I was arrested, I found myself sitting in a criminal court room at 100 Centre Street awaiting my arraignment. I’ll never forget the smell. The smell of men. Criminal men. Allegedly criminal men who along with allegedly criminal women filled the seats around me on two benches adjacent to the judge’s bench.
Maybe someday I’ll be able to describe the smell to you, but not today. Today I want to share with you the relief I felt in the moment that I had not been placed in the men’s holding cell and that I was instead placed and spent the previous night in the women’s holding cell – where the worst I faced was sleeping on the floor amongst scattering roaches and using an exposed stainless-steel toilet that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned. Ever.
I was guilty sitting on the bench that hot and humid summer morning, but not guilty of the litany of charges filed against me. Guilty because I knew that I was a transgender man and nobody else - not the other incarcerated men and women around me, not the public defender who had been assigned to me, and certainly not the judge who I was about to stand before – had any idea.
Of course, you knew that I was trans. But I never told you that I was arrested. Much less that I had a restraining order placed on me for a year and a half before we met and that I wasn’t allowed to see my children unsupervised for three and a half years. My visits with the kids were still being supervised when you and I first started talking.
You didn’t know about the very important meeting I had scheduled with the children’s attorney the day following your art installation. You didn’t know that was the reason I turned away from you that night when you tried to kiss me. I was afraid that if I let you kiss me, then it would inevitably lead to more and I would be distracted and maybe even miss my appointment with Mr. Katz, Esq. the next day.
There are so many things I never told you. But I wanted to.
I wish you would have had the chance to tell me more about your past, too. I’m sorry that you were in an abusive relationship – married to a man that hurt you so severely. Is he the one that broke your leg?
Dear Audrey,
Sometimes I walk by your art gallery late at night when the streets are empty, and I stand to look at your art through the window in the quiet of darkness because your sculptures bring me a sense of peace. They seem of the earth and of the hand at the same time and that brings me comfort. Your sculptures feel like they could be from another planet not so different from our own. In that way, they feed my sense of wonder.
Yes, I still wonder what could have been between us.
Dear Audrey,
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you.
Fuck your fucking beauty and perfect bone structure.
Fuck your insecurities.
Fuck your confidence and your arrogance.
Fuck your carefully crafted physical shape that I can pick out of a crowd at a great distance from the corner of one of my practically blind eyes.
Fuck you for liking me enough to let everyone except me know that you liked me so much.
Fuck you for giving up so easily.
Fuck you for making me feel so much so fast to begin with.
Fuck you for being so goddamn talented.
Fuck you for letting me think you would be in my life longer and fuck you for using the excuse of being too busy in order to avoid seeing me after I hurt your feelings.
Fuck you for not being vulnerable and emotionally honest with me.
Fuck you for being afraid to love me.
Fuck you for being afraid to let me love you.
Sometimes, late at night, when I’m home alone and freshly out of the shower and standing naked in front of the mirror, I shake my head and think, fuck you, Audrey, for not giving us more time. You missed out.
We both missed out.
I often wonder if there are enough fucks to give you, Audrey. Honestly.
#Fuck
Dear Audrey,
After three months of us not having any contact, except for rare sightings of each other in the park, I’ve come to call you, Fucking Audrey.
It’s fitting. So now whenever I say your name to myself or to my friends, I say, “Fucking Audrey this…” or “Fucking Audrey that…”:
“Guess who I saw again in the park today? Fucking Audrey.”
“Yeah, Fucking Audrey gave that to me…”
“I had another dream about Fucking Audrey last night.”
It’s the only thing that comes close to expressing how I feel about you. And what I wish I would have done with you when I had the chance, and when you were still willing. What I would still like to do with you. And what I’m not certain I will ever not want to do with you.
Maybe in some alternate universe. Sigh.
In the multiverse, which I know you believe in, too, I have no doubt that we are together and fucking each other’s brains out in the most amazing and loving and safe and intimate way two humans can.
For now, fantasy is what I rely on when I think of you. For now, fantasy will have to do.
#Fuck
Dear Audrey,
I’m not done yet. I don’t know when I will be done, and I plan to keep writing until I am. Maybe I’ll write a novel. Maybe I’ll write a chapter in that novel and call it, “Fucking Audrey.” Maybe I’ll publish it. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just write and write and write and then burn it – every word a cinder, a charred memory that eventually becomes a vague notion of some feeling from some fleeting encounter a long time ago in a land far away. No more clarity and no more comfort than smoke and ash.
Maybe someday you’ll read this.
Maybe someday my kids will read this.
Speaking of my kids, I have a question: Why did you stare at my daughter that way when I showed you a picture of her? Why didn’t you smile and tell me how adorable she is? Were you jealous? Were you intuiting something from the photo that I didn’t see? What were you thinking? You stared at her for quite a long time and never gave a reaction. So, I put my phone away and didn’t share another picture of my kids with you after that. Or did I? See? The memories are already transmuting. Smoke and ash.
Fuck you for not taking them or the fact that I’m a single parent into consideration when you cut me off so abruptly after the night of your art installation. The night I turned away from you. The night we last saw each other.
Dear Audrey,
I’m sitting at a table by myself in a Korean restaurant surrounded by young couples on first dates. It’s a Saturday night. They notice me in my aloneness and seem either confused or filled with a bit of pity on my behalf.
This amuses me because they have no idea what life has in store for them just around the corner.
They have no idea that I’ve had it all.
They have no idea that I’ve lost it all.
They have no idea that I’m not only perfectly content, but also grateful, to be here taking myself out on a date. Enjoying my own company. Uninterrupted by the needs or wants of another.
They have no idea what this side of adulting feels like. This hard-earned, post-divorce, alone-time glow.
But you do, Audrey, don’t you?
Are we selfish for being afraid to lose our respective alone time? Or are we foolish to think we can control it by never falling in love again?
Don’t get me started on the older couple sitting next to me having the most banal conversation I’ve heard in a while. They also appear to be on a date…
They should know better. Ha.
Dear Audrey,
It’s been two years since we last saw each other and I’ve been writing to you in my journal all this time. An exercise recommended to me by my therapist.
Thought you might want to know that my divorce is finally finalized.
I got joint custody.
I had an epiphany one evening recently when I was sitting alone in my living room still perplexed about why you shut me out so abruptly:
I had to admit to myself that I just wasn’t ready for a romantic relationship when we met. I had to admit that I led you on and then expected you to wait for me to be ready. I had to admit that I was not emotionally honest with you, yet I expected you to be emotionally honest with me.
I see my part in it now.
I now also see:
That I am worthy of being loved by a smart, talented, and beautiful woman like you.
That my mistake wasn’t catching feelings for you, but instead that I didn’t tell you how I felt and what I was experiencing at the time we were seeing each other.
That my choosing to love and be loved by a woman doesn’t mean I have to choose her over my children.
That I was afraid I would choose you over my kids. But I didn’t and I wouldn’t.
That I can have both when and if the time is right.
That the time for us just wasn’t right and so you walked away.
I understand now that your time is as valuable as mine.
#Fuck