Page 34 of Heathens
Salem follows wordlessly, clutching the Leica with both hands as if he’s afraid to drop it. I meander around the tourists, trying to find the best vantage point for what we’re trying to accomplish. Finally, I set us up near the southeast corner, far enough away from the crowd and the legs to get a nice shot of the entire length of it.
“You’ll want a tripod,” I say quickly. The lights are coming on any second, and they only stay on for five minutes. Pulling out my two mini-tripods, I hand one to Salem, showing him how to mount the camera. In thirty seconds, we’re all set up, lying on our stomachs on the ground, with the crowd in front of us and the Eiffel tower behind them.
Salem scoots closer—so close that our arms and sides are touching. He turns to face me, his eyes softening, and I trail his throat as he swallows. His hand is gripping the camera so tight that his fingers are white. He loosens his grip and looks down.
“You are, without a doubt, the most interesting person I've ever met,“ he says, raising his face again and leaning even closer. So close that I can see each eyelash, each dark hair follicle on the five o'clock shadow shading his face. His lips quirk up, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I never would've guessed I'd be lying on the ground taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower.“
Grinning, I nudge him with my shoulder. “Every good photographer has to get down on the floor every once in a while.”
Salem opens his mouth to reply, but we’re interrupted by the twinkling lights now pulsating on the Eiffel tower.
It takes my breath away. It always does. And for a second—just a second—the crowd quiets, and everyone stops what they’re doing to watch the lights dance along the iron. The hairs on my arm raise, and when I look over at Salem, the lights reflect in his eyes—making them sparkle.
“Okay, now set up your shot,” I murmur, trying to quell the flush that’s rising up my chest and my neck from being so close to him. His scent sends a dizzying jolt through me. I don’t know if it’s his deodorant, body wash, aftershave, or leftover incense... but I find myself feeling weaker when I’m near him. I bend my head down and look into the viewfinder. “When you’re ready, push the shutter.”
“This one?” Salem jokes, pointing to the large button.
“Ha ha,” I tease, giggling.
He winks and presses it, his face tilted and lit up with awe.
I follow suit and whisper the seconds to myself. When the shutter clicks closed, I adjust our settings a bit and tell him to do another one. In the five minutes, we’re able to take seven pictures. Click, adjust, click. I have no idea if any of these will turn out—I never really do with film—but I know cameras, I know settings, and I have to hope for the best.
Once the lights stop, Salem hops up, reaching down for my hand. I take it, and we walk to get dessert at one of the cheesy, overpriced tourist spots with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower.
“You have a sweet tooth,” I taunt a few minutes later, licking my spoon. I ordered the chocolate mousse, and he got the crème brûlée. We opted to sit outside on the cheap, wicker chairs and matching tables, just a couple blocks away from the tower. The place is filled with families, couples, and groups of tourists. “Somehow, our nights always end with dessert.”
He leans back. “I don’t see the problem.” We both laugh. He groans. “I could eat another one.”
“Glutton,” I mutter, smirking.
“Indeed.” He uses his spoon to scrape any last remaining bits out.
I offer him the rest of my mousse. “Do you want some of mine?” I hand him my spoon as his is tiny.
His eyes gleam. “I would never come between a woman and her chocolate.”
Laughing, I thrust the spoon into his hand. “Take it. You obviously want it more than me. Plus, I have chocolate at home like any sensible person.”
He leans forward and scoops out a large spoonful of mousse. Slowly eating it, his eyes meet mine, and I squirm uncomfortably. Something about the way his tongue moved, the fact that he is sharing my spoon—such an intimate act, and yet, neither of us seem bothered by it—and when he moans and closes his eyes...
I fake a cough and look away.
His voice, his timbre when he moaned... it did interesting things to me. It made me want to arch my back and part my lips. And my legs. Like the noise—likehe—is a puppet master commanding his marionette. Like I would do anything he told me to do, if he asked...
When he opens his eyes, he gives me a lazy, feline smile that makes me feel like I am fire incarnate.
And he’s only eating mousse.
“So, are we going to develop these pictures or what?” His voice is low, gravelly.
“We only took seven pictures. We still have seventeen pictures to use up before the roll’s full.” He nods and slaps a twenty euro on the table. “No, you’re not paying for this one,” I insist, reaching for my purse.
His hand reaches out and grips my hand gently. “No. Please. I’ve got it.”
“Salem,” I warn, sighing. “I know you’re not rich. I have the money.”
His smile fades, but he doesn’t let go of my hand as his eyes search mine. “My mother would never forgive me for letting a woman pay.”
