And I thought one fucking guy with no camera from Variety was bad enough. A million cameras, maybe fucking literally, pointing their flashbulbs at us all at once as numerous shouted questions fly at as from all directions is a whole lot worse.

We’re more than used to it by now—we fucking feed off this. It reminds us of that first night at Radio City.

Working her way down the line of photogs, Macy blows a kiss to one camera, looking so good doing it with her mahogany red lipstick and chocolate brown leather gloves, sticking her tongue out at the next and then just giving the finger to the growing crowd of paps trying to get an exclusive shot.

What I call our first night at Radio City, I’m talking about more than just the premiere of Believers—as I’ve taken to calling it—I mean it fucking literally.

That night is now our anniversary. Macy still likes to acknowledge it every month by giving me a plush stuffed coconut.

There are now a dozen stuffed coconuts in my collection, so…you do the math.

Macy impatiently gestures for me to join her before ascending the steps into Palais des Festivals et de Congres.

After hearing about the stuffed coconuts, you may be wondering what I give Macy for our monthly anniversaries—is it ever a stuffed shark?

The answer is that she’s never asked for a stuffed shark, and what I buy her is whatever the fuck she asks for.

Like her own movie studio, for instance.

I think she asked as a joke, but I had the capital, and—especially with the buzz surrounding Believers—I had the clout, as well.

The cameras start going fucking nuts after I catch up with Macy and we walk up the stairs arm in arm. They love to get shots of us together, which is totally understandable seeing as how we’re fucking photogenic.

And, as Macy pointed out, we’ll never have to hire a couple’s photographer—a Google search can give us the same thing for free.

“These stairs totally work for me,” Macy says softly as the cameras click behind us, “getting to burn nearly two calories on my way to attend a screening? Yes, please.”

“Does looking insanely fucking sexy also count as a benefit?”

“Are you talking about me? Or you?”

“Well, I was talking about you. But now that you mention it…”

The last thing the paparazzi cameras capture before we disappear inside is Macy playfully hitting me with her Louis Vuitton handbag.

There was no official release of Believers after the Radio City premiere—I realized that there were a couple of changes that should be made.

Putting the kibosh on the planned limited run drove buzz into the stratosphere, and investors were happy to come along for the ride. The decision to open a studio, with our own distribution, made the changes much easier to make.

Soon after we take our seats at the Cannes screening, the lights dim and the atmosphere becomes electric.

Finally, those words appear on the screen:

HarpSwim Productions.

Hey, do you know how hard it is to come up with a name for a film studio?

How about one that’s not too generic sounding, and that everyone involved agrees on?

Macy and I know what it references—that swim with Harpo—but we’re happy to let everyone else think it’s abstract poetry or whatever the fuck people think it is.

It’s just the words on the screen for now—we’re still working on a logo.

Everything else about the movie is the same, except I have a writing credit, and Macy Evans has story and executive producer credits—along with someone named Cara Milligan.

I don’t recall anyone of that name working on the film, but when Believers wins the Palme D’or and hits big with a wide release, she’s going to be one fucking seriously wealthy lady. And whoever this Cara Milligan is, I bet she has an awesome best friend, as well.

Macy and I have sat through this entire picture countless times by now while preparing for Cannes and its wide release. But it wasn’t in a darkened theater, with a huge audience, surrounded by a charged cloud of anticipation.

Cannes audiences are tough and fucking honest, and they’ll start booing and heckling during the movie if they don’t like it.

They don’t during this screening.

When the line is delivered—What we have is something real, and it’s not worth walking away from—the electricity in the room almost becomes tangible, and there’s a smattering of sincere applause.

When the house lights come back up, as I suspected, a standing ovation is already starting.

To be fair, that’s also nothing new at Cannes. What makes this one special is the chance to stand up with the woman I love, as she’s surrounded by adulation for the creation she inspired.

I watch Macy absorb the applause, and I start applauding for her myself as she wipes away a tear, then another, and maybe, for a moment, fully realizing the rare beauty she possesses.

A beauty that comes from inside. A beauty that radiates, and exhilarates, and can even drive someone crazy with its power.

Realizing everything that’s so astonishing about who she is, everything that can’t be defined in a single word, or even at all, but which I still feel so strongly, nearly brings me to my knees every time I look at her…Her power to inspire, to encourage, to challenge somebody to find the good in themselves, and strive to be the best person they can be.

She even encouraged and inspired someone like me, and it’s something she still does every day. As the applause for her goes on, showing no signs of letting up, I hope that this makes her realize its strength, if only for a moment.

And if it is only for a moment, and she lets go or forgets all those realizations, I will be there always, to remind of all those things and more.