Page 1 of Paparazzi

Returning from the bathroom, I find Damian and Lilly making out in front of the stove, passionately kissing like two teenagers held hostage by their hormones, ignoring the fact that I’m in the room.

“For God’s sake! Do you two ever stop fondling each other like two teenagers?”

Since we returned from the tour, they haven’t been separated for more than five minutes, even going so far as to move in together to a much bigger apartment than Damian’s previous one. They built a classic love nest. They spend their evenings on the sofa, under the blanket, trying to watch a movie but never seeing the end of it because, after twenty minutes, they’ve already ripped their clothes off and become a tangle of limbs, sweat, and moans of pleasure.

I know this because they once invited me to a pizza and Netflix night, as they call it, and I went to make some microwave popcorn before staring at a show I didn’t want to watch. Two and a half minutes later, I returned to find my shirtless friend lying beneath Lilly as her tongue worked its way across every inch of his skin. I had to walk to the front door with my eyes closed before bolting out of the apartment and getting into the elevator at light speed.

Lilly glances up from their make-out session and giggles, giving me one of her contagious smiles that light up her eyes, then pushes Damian away, her hands on his chest. In response, my friend lets out a guttural grunt. Maybe I should have accepted Simon’s invitation to relax in his Connecticut home, reading books and looking at the greenhouse filled with bonsai and other plants whose names I don’t know.

“You only say that because you’re jealous.” Damian goes to the fridge and hands me a beer after uncorking it. His face is enlightened by an amused smile, making fun of me. He’s been doing this a lot lately since this woman came into his life and made him so happy.

I sit at the kitchen counter and sip from the bottle, watching Lilly manage the stove. She’s a fantastic musician, but she could burn a precooked dish in the microwave. She’s using a metal spatula to peel off the chicken breast she forgot to check—it’s so burnt I doubt it’s healthy to eat. I hope my friend comes to the rescue of our dinner and prepares something edible.

I glance at Damian and find him looking at her with adoring eyes. I had no idea how much a woman could change a man until I hung around these two. The stubbornness of this girl has capitulated even an unrepentant womanizer like my best friend. It’s a rare relationship, theirs. I’ve only seen it in a handful of couples, and I’ve come to the conclusion that love is an endangered experience. It exists here and there, I’m sure, but few are lucky enough to find it in a world full of masks and fake smiles, opportunism, and stabs in the back.

“No, not jealous. I have my share of sex. It’s not like I’ve become a priest,” I boast, even though the number of women coming on to me has been fewer lately.

The Jailbirds are eighty percent Damian, fifteen percent Michael—who with his brazenness and beauty manages to earn his space—and the remaining five percent I share with Simon. The groupies always want the damn front man who exudes sensuality and slams waves of testosterone in their faces. They don’t look at the drummer hidden behind a wall of instruments. When we walk into a club, the girls recognize Damian and Michael, while Simon and I have to be introduced as “the other bandmates.” Not that this prevents us from getting girls, but they usually settle for us because Damian chooses someone else.

“Don’t you miss having a steady companion?” Lilly’s question is as simple as it is complicated.

“Not exactly. With the life we have, it’s not easy to tell what women want from you. And since we don’t stay in the same place long enough to go out with someone more than three months in a row, my only option is the sex without strings attached.” It’s only a half-truth. Even if I didn’t have the tour, I still wouldn’t want anyone by my side. From the way he’s looking at me, I know Damian understands my reasoning.

“You’ve been here for a few months now,” says Lilly, who seems worried I won’t find a woman.

“Look, the right one should literally fall into my arms.” I chuckle while I sip my beer and pull out my cigarettes. I need to cut this conversation short before it completely spoils my evening. I’d rather not visit memories of a past that should just stay buried.

“Not in here!” Lilly glares at me and points her finger at the door.

Damian chuckles and shrugs his shoulders.

“I know, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m going out to smoke.” I roll my eyes and stroll toward the front door.

The late November night is way too cold, even by New York standards. The smell of Manhattan is like a fog that seeps into your bones these days: a mixture of smog, ethnic cuisines, and dust. It’s not a bad smell. It’s what sets this city I love apart from any other. Simon loves to take refuge in his Connecticut home in the middle of nature as soon as he’s free from work commitments. I tried it too, really, but to me, it feels like something is missing there, that the air doesn’t smell of anything, even if it is healthier. And this time of year, this city is a sparkling feast of Christmas decorations that light up the streets. Every corner of this place is transformed into a world of magic and hope. On December first, the tree lights will light up in Rockefeller Center, officially kicking off the festivities. Tourists will invade the streets, with their eyes shining and their mouths open, enraptured by the decorations so realistic that they seem alive. Noses pointing upwards, they’ll wait impatiently for the snow that whitewashes everything and muffles the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps, making this corner of the world even more magical.

I can’t help but smile in this alley, hidden by empty trash cans, thinking about the city that adopted me and makes me feel at home. Illuminated by two street lights, this spot feels less sinister than the rest of the city. When I come to visit Damian and Lilly, I often take refuge in this alley. I don’t like to smoke in front of their apartment because sometimes people recognize me, take pictures, and I find myself in some gossip newspaper just for smoking in peace.

Here in the back alley, though, I’m always alone—or at least that’s what I thought until a metallic noise above my head makes me look upwards. I don’t even have time to figure out what’s going on before I find myself lying on the ground, some unknown person in my arms.

“What the hell...”

A mane of long, red, wavy hair moves above me, trying to get back on its feet with some difficulty. It takes me a few seconds to catch my breath and get up; my back is killing me.

“I’m so sorry! I slipped.” A woman’s sweet voice brings me back to reality.

I watch her swab her bloody knee with a napkin she’s pulled out of a bag emblazoned with the name “Iris” in giant bold letters. Probably written with a marker when she was a teenager, since it’s a little faded. There’s no doubt that this girl with legs for days, wrapped in a pair of tight black jeans and a figure-hugging jacket, is no longer a teenager. I stare at her like she’s an alien who’s came down to earth, swooping on me straight from the sky.

“Are you hurt?” I ask her, looking at the blood dripping from her knee.

She looks up at me and my breath catches in my throat. Two huge, green, fawn eyes stare at me, wide-eyed. Her face is covered in freckles, her pink-perfect lips slightly open in surprise. She has that familiar look of someone who recognizes me—but this time, I’m the one paralyzed by the breathtaking view in front of me.

“No, just a scratch…” Her voice comes out a little uncertain, but the smile on her lips is confident. She is not intimidated by my presence.

“How the hell did you fall from the sky?” I’m curious to know what she was doing up there, on the fire escape.

“Are you going to ask if I’m an angel now? And if I got hurt when I fell? Like one of those movie pick-up lines? You don’t seem like the type who needs jokes to pick up girls,” she teases as she finishes cleaning the blood from her knee and tosses her napkin into the trash can next to us.

I burst out in unexpected laughter. Clearly, she’s not fooled by the charm of a “famous” musician. “Apart from the fact that I already asked if you got hurt, no, I wasn’t going to hit on you. I don’t use those pick-up lines to impress women,” I admit, laughing and lighting another cigarette, as the first one ended up on the ground with my butt.

---