conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first medium length scene for a screenplay with the title 'Call Me by Your Name'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Call Me by Your Name
  
  DISSOLVE TO
  EXT. PERLMAN VILLA - AFTERNOON 29 OLIVER arrives on his bike from town, wearing the blue bathing suit and the blue billowy shirt he had when he first arrived. The house is quiet and deserted on a Saturday afternoon.
  INT. ELIO’S BEDROOM - PERLMAN VILLA - AFTERNOON 30 ELIO is on his bed wearing only a bathing suit. His right hand is down inside his swim suit. He is tense, expectant, alert to every sound. There are footsteps just outside his door. 
  OLIVER, shirtless, enters the room from the bathroom. 
  ELIO quickly pulls his bathing suit higher with a jerking movement as if caught in an embarrassing position. 
  OLIVER Why aren’t you with the others at the river? ELIO is speechless, out of breath, says: ELIO I’m... I’m... I have... an allergy. 
  OLIVER Me too. We might have the same one. 
  ELIO shrugs. A beat. 
  OLIVER (CONT’D) Want to go for a swim? Just the two of us? ELIO (still out of breath) Later, maybe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me another long scene.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: OLIVER I’ll miss all this, Mrs. P. 
  ANNELLA And we will certainly miss you. 
  PERLMAN You must think of this place as your second home - or third, or fourth, whatever. But the welcome mat will definitely be out (to ELIO, who has just strolled in).) Isn’t that true? ELIO (cautiously) Any time... 
  ANNELLA Ennnnnni taaim... 
  PERLMAN How is the work going? OLIVER It’s going.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last long scene.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ELIO (daringly) “Elio, Elio” OLIVER (V.O.) (After a very long beat) Oliver.. I remember everything...
  INT.PROFESSOR PERLMAN’S STUDY - PERLMAN VILLA - AFTERNOON 144 The PERLMANS and MAFALDA are at a big table spread out with what look like application letters, with photos attached. It’s the ritual that takes place every year, they evaluate several letters of proposal sent by advanced graduate students in America, or young aspiring scholars from there. It's the ritual that brought about the choice of Oliver last year. 
  ELIO enters the room, he looks over the photos, the resumés. There are half a dozen young men and a couple of young women. 
  ANNELLAE questo? (This one?) But Elio is not interested in this. They watch him leave the study.
  INT. DINING ROOM - PERLMAN VILLA - NIGHT 145 Elio enters the dining room all dressed for the celebration lunch. Light is dimming outside the windows. Activities around the table between Annella and Mafalda (placing flowers, lighting candles etc). Elio crouches in front of the fire. His face lost in thoughts. The entire end credit scrolls on his close up. Near the end Elio, Elio ANNELLA94. Elio is so deeply in his thoughts that only after a long beat after Annella calling him he turns toward the sound of her voice. Fade to black.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Call Me by Your Name
  He had, it took me a while to realize, four personalities depending on which bathing suit he was wearing. Knowing which to expect gave me the illusion of a slight advantage. Red: bold, set in his ways, very grown-up, almost gruff and ill-tempered—stay away. Yellow: sprightly, buoyant, funny, not without barbs—don't give in too easily; might turn to red in no time. Green, which he seldom wore: acquiescent, eager to learn, eager to speak, sunny—why wasn't he always like this? Blue: the afternoon he stepped into my room from the balcony, the day he massaged my shoulder, or when he picked up my glass and placed it right next to me.
  But she had been won over well before, on his third morning with us, when she asked him if he liked juice in the morning, and he'd said yes. He was probably expecting orange or grapefruit juice; what he got was a large glass filled to the rim with thick apricot juice. He had never had apricot juice in his life. She stood facing him with her salver flat against her apron, trying to make out his reaction as he quaffed it down. He said nothing at first. Then, probably without thinking, he smacked his lips. She was in heaven. My mother couldn't believe that people who taught at world-famous universities smacked their lips after downing apricot juice. From that day on, a glass of the stuff was waiting for him every morning.
  He was baffled to know that apricot trees existed in, of all places, our orchard. On late afternoons, when there was nothing to do in the house, Mafalda would ask him to climb a ladder with a basket and pick those fruits that were almost blushing with shame, she said. He would joke in Italian, pick one out, and ask, Is this one blushing with shame? No, she would say, this one is too young still, youth has no shame, shame comes with age.
  I shall never forget watching him from my table as he climbed the small ladder wearing his red bathing trunks, taking forever to pick the ripest apricots. On his way to the kitchen—wicker basket, espadrilles, billowy shirt, suntan lotion, and all—he threw me a very large one, saying, "Yours," in just the same way he'd throw a tennis ball across the court and say, "Your serve." Of course, he had no idea what I'd been thinking minutes earlier, but the firm, rounded cheeks of the apricot with their dimple in the middle reminded me of how his body had stretched across the boughs of the tree with his tight, rounded ass echoing the color and the shape of the fruit. Touching the apricot was like touching him. He would never know, just as the people we buy the newspaper from and then fantasize about all night have no idea that this particular inflection on their face or that tan along their exposed shoulder will give us no end of pleasure when we're alone.
  My mother was nonplussed. We all, including my two cousins who were visiting that week, had an impulse to clap.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I stepped out onto the balcony for a second and peered in the direction of his bedroom. No light. I'd still knock anyway.
  Not going suddenly burst on me like the one thing I wanted most in life. It kept tugging at me, straining toward me ever so gently now, like someone who'd already whispered once or twice in my sleep but, seeing I wasn't waking, had finally tapped me on the shoulder and was now encouraging me to look for every inducement to put off knocking on his window tonight. The thought washed over me like water on a flower shop window, like a soothing, cool lotion after you've showered and spent the whole day in the sun, loving the sun but loving the balsam more. Like numbness, the thought works on your extremities first and then penetrates to the rest of your body, giving all manner of arguments, starting with the silly ones—it's way too late for anything tonight—rising to the major ones—how will you face the others, how will you face yourself?
  But I loved the fear—if fear it really was—and this they didn't know, my ancestors. It was the underside of fear I loved, like the smoothest wool found on the underbelly of the coarsest sheep. I loved the boldness that was pushing me forward; it aroused me, because it was born of arousal itself. "You'll kill me if you stop"—or was it: "I'll die if you stop." Each time I heard these words, I couldn't resist.
  I knock on the glass panel, softly. My heart is beating like crazy. I am afraid of nothing, so why be so frightened? Why? Because everything scares me, because both fear and desire are busy equivocating with each other, with me, I can't even tell the difference between wanting him to open the door and hoping he's stood me up.
  It was strange seeing him fussing awkwardly this way. I had expected a hailstorm of mini-ironies, which was why I was nervous. Instead, I was greeted with excuses, like someone apologizing for not having had time to buy better biscuits for afternoon tea.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Instead, I was greeted with excuses, like someone apologizing for not having had time to buy better biscuits for afternoon tea. No light. I'd still knock anyway.
  Not going suddenly burst on me like the one thing I wanted most in life. It kept tugging at me, straining toward me ever so gently now, like someone who'd already whispered once or twice in my sleep but, seeing I wasn't waking, had finally tapped me on the shoulder and was now encouraging me to look for every inducement to put off knocking on his window tonight. The thought washed over me like water on a flower shop window, like a soothing, cool lotion after you've showered and spent the whole day in the sun, loving the sun but loving the balsam more. Like numbness, the thought works on your extremities first and then penetrates to the rest of your body, giving all manner of arguments, starting with the silly ones—it's way too late for anything tonight—rising to the major ones—how will you face the others, how will you face yourself?
  But I loved the fear—if fear it really was—and this they didn't know, my ancestors. It was the underside of fear I loved, like the smoothest wool found on the underbelly of the coarsest sheep. I loved the boldness that was pushing me forward; it aroused me, because it was born of arousal itself. "You'll kill me if you stop"—or was it: "I'll die if you stop." Each time I heard these words, I couldn't resist.
  I knock on the glass panel, softly. My heart is beating like crazy. I am afraid of nothing, so why be so frightened? Why? Because everything scares me, because both fear and desire are busy equivocating with each other, with me, I can't even tell the difference between wanting him to open the door and hoping he's stood me up.
  It was strange seeing him fussing awkwardly this way. I had expected a hailstorm of mini-ironies, which was why I was nervous.I stepped out onto the balcony for a second and peered in the direction of his bedroom.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I looked at him, feeling quite disarmed, though not threatened. Like people who blush easily but aren't ashamed of it, I knew better than to stifle this feeling, and let myself be swayed by it.
  We walked down the back stairwell into the garden where the old breakfast table used to be. "This was my father's spot. I call it his ghost spot. My spot used to be over there, if you remember." I pointed to where my old table used to stand by the pool.
  We stood there for a few seconds where my father and I had spoken of Oliver once. Now he and I were speaking of my father. Tomorrow, I'll think back on this moment and let the ghosts of their absence maunder in the twilit hour of the day.
  Twenty years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this morning, and morning seemed light-years away.
  I stopped for a second. If you remember everything, I wanted to say, and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you're just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there's not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.