Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
Idiot. I feel like a complete idiot out here at this café, looking at her through the window while she’s working on her computer, for God’s sake! I woke up this morning with last night still burned in my mind: her lips bending slightly upwards when she talks about music, the way she gets angry when people don’t understand certain songs, her persistence in defending some albums that, for the rest of the world, are really awful. I still feel her taste on my tongue, her hair in my fingers, her hands on my skin. The distance between us almost hurts.
She sucked me into her world, captured me with her big green eyes, and made my legs tremble like a kid. I look around as people passing by on their way to the office cast strange glances at me. They’re right. I’m here in the middle of the sidewalk in Alphabet City. The café in front of me is all painted in bright tones with graffiti. It’s a splash of color in the middle of the tall, gray, and dilapidated buildings in this area. It’s one of Manhattan’s less wealthy and popular neighborhoods, where the streets would be glum and bare without these vibrant spots. It’s certainly not as Christmassy as Fifth Avenue and its twinkling lights. Still, some decorations have appeared on the windows, giving glimpses of the festive atmosphere inside those spaces. And Iris is a splash of life amid those spirals of colors. Her red hair, gathered in a messy bun held together by a pencil. In the daylight, it almost seems to catch fire. She’s focused on her laptop, her lips pouting in concentration that makes her adorable and her forehead wrinkled as if she’s writing the next Pulitzer-winning piece.
A middle-aged man with graying hair and a suit at least two sizes too big walks past, bumping me slightly with his shoulder while looking at his cell phone and muttering an apology. That’s just what I need to wake up from my daydream. I take a deep breath and decide to go into the café and make myself look ridiculous for the umpteenth time.
I look around and get lost for a second at the endless list of items written in colored chalk on the huge menu attached to the wall behind the counter. The shelf in front of me is cluttered with glass vases containing various biscuits from a local pastry shop. Around me, the tables, sofas, and chairs are mismatched, as though taken from some flea market, giving it a quirky vibe. What may seem like a nonsensical jumble of furniture is actually an explosion of color that elicits a feeling of joy.
“Finally, you decided to come in. I thought you’d cut and run after you finished your cigarette and were about to light a third. You could still dash out if you want, because she’s so focused on her work, she didn’t even notice you coming in.” Emily teases me from behind the counter, although her infectious smile doesn’t embarrass me at all. I get the impression she’s like Iris: very straightforward and sincere in dealing with people.
“Are you suggesting I should avoid being an idiot and leave before she notices?” I ask with a laugh, but the truth is, I’m tempted to actually do it.
“Are you kidding? I didn’t run back to the club last night and tell you where she would be this morning because I needed the exercise. She’s a woman. How many have you had in your life? This is no different!” Her rebuke makes me smile but also feel like an idiot. “Do you want anything in the meantime?”
I study her for a few seconds. “I’m sorry, I’m lost,” I confess, a little embarrassed.
The girl smiles at me, and her brown eyes light up. “Do you want to order?”
“A black coffee,” I say without thinking about it, ordering what I usually get when I go out, avoiding the endless menus and the pressure of the cashiers who want to take your order and quickly dispose of the line behind you.
This is not the case with Emily; she looks at me almost disappointed. “A black coffee? Are you sure?” she asks, nodding to the wall behind her that’s crowded with dozens of different types of coffee, as well as herbal teas and a list of sweet and salty sandwiches so long it makes me anxious. Does anyone really need to order a decaffeinated latte with cream and sprinkles of caramelized hazelnuts? Can a person even drink something like that?
“And a double granola?” It’s more of a question than a statement, given my insecurity as I’m pointing a finger at the first jar in front of me. I basically have no idea what I ordered.
“Great choice. It’s one of my favorites.”
I have the vague impression that she’s good-naturedly making fun of me, but I can’t make any decent jokes to escape this awkwardness. Ever since meeting Iris, I’ve been piling up an almost embarrassing list of blunders. My awkward moments are evolving from bad to worse.
“Thank you, that’s reassuring to know.” The statement comes out so serious and solemn that Emily can’t hold back a chuckle.
“Do you want to pay, or do you want anything else?” Her kind smile reassures me she’s not making fun of me at all.
“I’ll pay.” I smile at her shaking my head. I already know these two aren’t going to make my life easy.
When I finally grab my coffee and a very inviting looking cookie, I turn to Iris and find her staring at me with the same wide eyes as last night—like an alien just landed in front of her.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks aloud, making half the people in here turn and look. I feel almost undressed, and not in a pleasant way.
Iris realizes she’s raised her voice too much. She beckons me to sit next to her with a smile that seems sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m surprised to see you around here. It’s not where you hang out, is it?”
She’s trying to apologize, and it makes me feel terribly guilty. I should be the one to apologize for popping into her life so urgently I look almost psychotic.
“No, you’re absolutely right. The truth is, I wanted to see you and, since I don’t have your number, but I knew you were going to be here this morning, I came in person.” I hope my confession is not so honest it scares her. Although, by now, she should have run like hell.
“You could have contacted me on Instagram or on my blog. You didn’t have to go to the trouble of coming all this way to talk to me.” She smiles, but I notice she’s a little embarrassed. Maybe she regretted last night’s kiss, and now she doesn’t know how to tell me to stay away. On the other hand, I’d like to repeat the experience a thousand more times because, after tasting her sweetness, I can’t think of anything else.
I was wrong to come here without telling her. It’s clear that I’ve crossed more than one line with her lately, and it’s getting a little weird and embarrassing for both of us.
“Or, if I had your number, I could text you that I’m coming by to say hi, and not look like the perverted maniac who follows you,” I venture and immediately regret it, seeing her grimace. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you, and I certainly shouldn’t have come here,” I stammer uncertainly, standing up, ready to run out of this place like a one hundred-meter runner in the race of his life.
A hand grabs my wrist before I can walk outside. When I turn around again, I find Iris’s almost confused eyes. “No, please. We got off on the wrong foot this morning,” she reassures me, motioning for me to sit next to her again. “So would you like my number so you can tell me about that time you took the stage with half your pants?” The mischievous smile on her face tells me she’s not mad at me.
I burst out laughing. I like how this story has become our inside joke to break the ice. “The time I was attacked by a dog that ripped off my jeans? Yes, I really should tell you that story.”
Now it’s Iris who bursts out laughing. “Really? A dog? I didn’t remember it that way.”
“I swear.” The tension slips away with this private joke only the two of us share.
“So, what did you get for breakfast?”
“A black coffee and...I don’t know, I think it’s called double granola.” I look at the two cereal cookies with cream in the middle, holding them together.
“A black coffee? Seriously?” Her raised eyebrow tells me she doesn’t believe it.
“Don’t make me feel guilty like Emily did. I always order a black coffee when I’m out.”
She chuckles, leans on the sofa, and looks at me with an interested smile. “Are you one of those rock stars who survive on black coffee and cigarettes?”
I laugh out loud, forgetting my manners. “No, definitely not. I order black coffee because it’s easy. Everyone has it, and I can play it safe without losing my mind with these crazy menus. I’m a person who likes to have the situation under control. I like to plan, find solutions and try to anticipate any problems. The unexpected annoys me. Having a line of people behind me in a hurry to order makes me nervous. I feel the pressure and, in the end, I never get to read the whole menu. So I order the black coffee and clear the line in less than five seconds.”
I know it sounds like a fool’s speech, but it’s not like I can make a worse impression than the one I’ve already made. I might as well be honest.
“So you can face concerts in stadiums with thousands of people in front of you, but you feel pressured to order a coffee?” she asks me incredulously, and I burst out laughing.
“Exactly. For the concerts we prepare for months, everything is planned. I know what will happen, the timing, the set list we’ll play. Over time, I also learned to predict which unforeseen events are statistically more likely to happen and have somehow become part of my routine. But if you make me order a coffee in front of someone who’s fussing because he has a meeting he’s going to be late to, I’m going to freak out.”
Iris looks at me, and I see understanding in her eyes, not someone trying to comprehend the rantings of a madman. Right now, the people sitting around us seem light years away, as if glass walls surrounded us, cutting out the rest of the world, giving this conversation special relevance.
“It’s not your fault that the person behind you is late for his job. He could always get up five minutes earlier, take an earlier train or decide not to have breakfast out,” she points out.
“I’ve learned that my actions have consequences for others, whether I like it or not. I prefer to be as less of an obstacle as possible for the people around me,” I respond with a half-smile.
Iris studies me for a few seconds, then perhaps realizes the topic makes me uncomfortable and decides to bail me out of my embarrassment. “So, the fact that I don’t do things like you expect, like giving you my phone number, is upsetting you.” It’s a straightforward observation, but I hear almost satisfaction in her voice, as if she understands that she has a power over me that she did not expect.
“The truth? You’re freaking me out. I’m acting like a teenager who makes a series of bad decisions but doesn’t know how to snap out of it. I spent ten minutes outside this café this morning convincing myself to go home because I look like a lunatic, but here I am, with a black coffee and a cream-filled cookie that I ordered just because Emily pressured me. I have no idea what’s inside this damn cookie!” I laugh, and she does the same, covering her mouth with her hand, but I still see those amused green eyes peeking out from above her fingers. I feel like a kid at Christmas for making her laugh.
“It’s hazelnut cream, and it’s Emily’s favorite cookie. You must have made her really happy after ordering only a black coffee,” she teases me a little.
I look at Emily, who is still watching us, smiling and waving her hand. “So, you’re very social, but you don’t have Facebook?” I move the focus of this conversation to her again.
Iris shakes her head as she sips from her cup. “You checked.” The satisfied smile on her lips almost makes me want to lean in and take it off with a kiss, like last night’s. But now it is daylight. There is no darkness to hide from prying eyes.
“I at least wanted to know if you’re ‘in a relationship’ before asking for your phone number for the umpteenth time, and Facebook is the best source for this kind of news,” I admit without beating around the bush.
“I have a feeling this is information you will add to your not-able-to-control list and it will drive you crazy.”
The way she deflects my questions is one of the things I find most intriguing about this woman. Is it possible that when I talk to her I leave more confused, and with more questions, than I had at the beginning of the conversation? Right now, I have absolute certainty that this woman is putting me under her thumb, and I have no idea how to get away without hurting myself.
“It means I will have to take you home to see if you live with someone. You know, I’ve been good at stalking people lately.”
Iris laughs, and my day lights up a little more. “You go from my phone number to my home address. You’re leveling up.”
It’s my turn to burst out laughing, and in an impulsive move, I stretch my arm out and draw her to me to kiss her head. I feel her stiffen for a moment but then let go of a long breath and relax. For a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded coffee shop.
“If you really want to find out where I live, this is your chance,” she tells me, stuffing the computer in her bag and putting on her jacket. I’m almost surprised. I thought she was going to skate over this like she did with the phone number. It takes a moment before I rush up and follow her out into the cold Manhattan morning.
“Your coffee and cookie? Don’t you want them?”
I smile, embarrassed because I completely forgot I put them on the table in front of us. “Emily won’t be offended if I leave them there, will she?”
Iris smiles amusedly. “She’ll remind you for the next six years, but then she’ll forget about it.”
“Only six years? I can handle that.”
We walk a couple of blocks in comforting silence, with our hands in our pockets so as not to feel the bitter cold. The air is charged like it’s about to snow, and the gray sky makes this city even more magical usual. Iris stops in front of a building that has seen better times, with peeling plaster, the chipped steps leading up to the slightly open door, and a row of garbage cans occupying the sidewalk. Christmas magic is nowhere in sight on this desolate corner. I hope this thought doesn’t translate into a grimace on my face.
“Will you promise to close your eyes as we go up?” she asks, a little embarrassed.
“Do I have to worry?”
“Let’s just say this place isn’t like the luxury hotels you’re used to,” she admits, looking down.
“Trust me, my life has not been all luxury and glitz.” After prison, any place can feel like home to me.
Iris inhales deeply and eventually seems to convince herself. She beckons me with her head to the stairs, and I follow her. She pushes the door slightly and as soon as I take a step inside the small and dark entrance, the pungent smell of urine forces me to cover my mouth to keep from vomiting. I glance down the three steps that descend into the basement and find a filthy blanket in the corner where, I’m guessing, the homeless take refuge at night. For a moment, I imagine Iris coming home late, with some drunks here bothering her as she takes the stairs to her apartment. Nausea almost makes me falter. The sense of disorientation destabilizes me. I have never felt such strong feelings of protection toward anyone but my bandmates and it confuses me.
I follow her up stairs that are worn and chipped and covered in so much dirt you can’t even tell what the original color was. It’s so narrow here that two people trying to pass at the same time would have trouble. The hallway walls are bare, there are no Christmas decorations on the doors—a stark contrast to the luxurious buildings in Manhattan. In the building where I live, the lobby is decorated with a ten-foot tree, every single free space is filled with poinsettias, and each door is decked out with Christmas garland or a custom arrangement made by a trusted florist. Even I had Claire get one, so as not to be out of place. Here, it seems the magic of Christmas disappeared at the entrance.
The third-floor hallway Iris enters is better. The dark gray plaster is peeled in some spots, but at least the place is clean, and at the entrances to the various apartments a few doormats decorate the otherwise bland surroundings. When we arrive in front of her apartment, the lamp’s dim light next to her door illuminates her carpet, and I find it difficult to hold back a laugh. The black lettering on the brownish bristles reads, ‘If you’re the pizza guy, you’re welcome.’ I imagine her standing in a store in front of such a carpet and smiling, satisfied as she puts it in the cart.
“Congratulations. You’ve survived the valley of tears without running away. Not many of them arrive at the door.” She tries to play it down with a joke, but I see in her eyes that she is embarrassed by the desolation of this place.
“Because they didn’t realize that to get the prize, they have to overcome the obstacles first,” I smile.
“Let’s hear it—what would this prize be?” Her gaze challenges me.
I bend down and kiss her without giving her time to think about it. I sink my fingers into her hair and draw her to me to savor her tongue that gently caresses mine. She grabs my jacket to pull me closer and I gently push her against the door jamb. I press against her body, and she feels a little more mine. Iris has a tendency to slip between my fingers, but with this kiss I want to feel every part of her, caress the skin of her face, inhale her sweet scent. Since last night I’ve wanted to do this, take a moment to savor her without rushing, without witnesses, without interruptions. When I step away from her, she looks at me perplexed and perhaps even a little disappointed.
“Don’t you want to come in and see if I have a boyfriend?” She smiles.
“If you really lived with someone, you wouldn’t have let me up here and risked being discovered.”
When she sees me moving away from her, she’s taken back. She’s still panting from the kiss, with a dazed and dreamy look and red cheeks. She’s so beautiful, I’d like to go back and kiss her again, without giving her time to breathe, but I don’t. It’s my turn to confuse her, to leave her gasping in front of that threshold that divides my sanity from pure desire. If I cross that door, nothing will be the same, and the emotions I feel scare me too much to be able to deal with them. I need to distance myself before I cross that fine line that I won’t be able to go back from.
I walk down the stairs, this time with a smile planted on my face. I couldn’t get her phone number, but at least now I know where she lives.