Page 31 of Paparazzi

I look at her furtively while I take the cup of coffee and sip some of it. It’s surprisingly good.

“Did you regret it?” she studies me to see my reaction.

“It’s good. I like the vanilla taste, even if it’s not my favorite,” I admit honestly. I’m not one to keep quiet about what I really like to make people happy. It isn’t fair to them.

“And what do you really like?”

“The caramel macchiato, even though your friend looked at me horrified when I ordered it and told me that the best she could do was an organic latte with a splash of caramel. So, I opted for what you get.”

Iris bursts out laughing, one of those belly laughs that makes her throw her head back and turn my whole world upside down. “Emily hates coffee chains where all drinks are the same. It’s a miracle she let you order, and hasn’t kicked you out of the cafè.”

I smile at her and finish my coffee. “I probably intimidated her with my fame.” I pose like the rock star I am not, just to see her smile.

“Emily? No, trust me. You may be a god who fell to the earth, but you will never have that effect on her. That’s why I like to go to concerts with her. She won’t squeal for anyone.”

Her explanation gives me a pretty clear idea of what their friendship is like—they’re perfect for each other.

“What are you doing now?” she asks when I put the gnocchi in the boiling water after salting it.

“I cook the gnocchi. You have to leave them in until they float.”

“No timer?” she asks, scandalized.

I laugh at her horrified face and shake my head. “No. But trust me, it’s simple. I didn’t understand it at first either, but then I saw my mother do it dozens of times, and I learned.”

She nods, frowning and observing the water starting to boil again. “It’s true! They’re floating!” she exclaims, like a little girl who sees snow for the first time.

I laugh again, her naivety making her look even younger. “See? It’s not that complicated.”

“You’re a chef, as well as a decent drummer,” she teases me.

“Decent, you say?” I raise an eyebrow in defiance, though the sly smile doesn’t leave my face.

I drain the gnocchi and add them to the pan with the pesto and stir, then I put them on the two plates she pulled out.

“Come on, you’re good! I’ll give you that.”

“Wait till you taste the pesto gnocchi. You will be ecstatic at my skills.”

She smiles as she pulls a bottle of wine from a kitchen shelf. “I don’t know if red wine goes with pesto gnocchi, but I have nothing but water to drink. I think Emily brought me this bottle. I never buy wine.”

I nod and set up the bar table in the middle of the room, rummaging through the drawers to look for things like it’s my house. It’s weird how she lets me do it, and I don’t feel particularly embarrassed. It’s like we’ve been doing this routine for years, and haven’t only known each other for a handful of days. This is what scares me the most: with her, everything is so natural and simple I’m afraid it’s just a beautiful fantasy that will hurt when I wake up.

“I confess that I never understood the wine-food pairings. Usually, when I go out, I’m lazy. The restaurants I go to have someone who chooses wines as a job, so I let them do everything,” I candidly admit.

“You’re right. After all, you can’t be an expert on anything. For example, I like photography and music. It’s not like I start taking a cooking class just because I have to feed myself.” She shrugs and sits next to me as I open the bottle of wine and pour it.

I look around and focus on the black-and-white photos of New York City that I’ve already noticed hanging on the walls. People walking, others dancing, a piano in Central Park, and children playing around it while an elderly gentleman is sitting on the bench, are all life shots of a city full of electricity, life, movement.

“Did you take them?”

“Yes, I’ve been living in Manhattan since I was born, and the camera is something I’ve always had with me.” Her explanation is as simple as it is intriguing. I would like to ask her more about her, her family, her friends, but I know that these questions would lead to questions about me that I’m not yet ready to deal with.

“They’re gorgeous. Have you ever thought about selling photos for a living? Someone would pay a lot of money for those. They’re stunning. I’m not just saying that.”

I see her blanch and cough and realize I’m staring at her. She regains some composure and sips her wine to cover an embarrassed smile. “Not really. To do that you have to be connected with art galleries. I tried to go to the most famous ones, but they just said: ‘We’ll let you know’ and then disappeared. I needed a job that paid the bills. I can’t count on the slim chance that someone will walk into a gallery and buy my shots.”

“It’s a shame because these photos should be shared with the world.”

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