Page 17 of Paparazzi

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.

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