Page 18 of Paparazzi

“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.

A Band You Can’t Miss!

Hi Roadies!

Have you seen my Instagram stories from last night? If you have, you’d already know that I was at “The Bitter End” for The Revolver concert and interview. This band surprised me in a good way because, despite everyone being very young, they have an enviable stage presence. Their second album came out recently, and we noticed a vast improvement over their debut record.

Q: On your first album, you experimented a lot with genres. You covered a wide range on the spectrum. However, in your latest work, the funk turn is the common thread from the first to the last song. How did you make that decision?

A: The truth is much less poetic than you can imagine. On the first album, we were looking for our identity. We wanted to do something that might please everyone a little bit. In the second, we were more selfish and played only what we like, what amuses us, and what makes us remember why we started making music.

Q: So, should we expect this direction on the next albums as well?

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