The exhibition

In love with his gaze

Chapter 4 — The exhibition

Six forty-five p.m. I'm early, obviously. I pace back and forth in front of the gallery, a small room on rue de Turenne wedged between a concept store selling overpriced clothes and a bakery that sells cookies for six euros. The air is soft, almost spring-like despite the autumn lingering, and I put on my blue dress. The one that makes my eyes shine, according to Sophie. The one who makes me seem like a girl who is in control of her life. Perfect illusion.

I check my phone every forty seconds. No message. No “I’m late”, no “I’ll be there in five minutes”. Nothing. Kevin in all his splendor.

—Are you waiting for him or are you running away from him? a voice whispers behind me.

I jump. Kévin is there, thirty centimeters away, a dark jacket on his shoulders, his eternal boots, and a glint in his eyes that I didn't yet recognize: amusement. Barely. But present.

—You scared me.

—You were watching the street the wrong way.

— I wasn't watching, I... admired the architecture.

- Of course.

He's not really smiling, but his mouth is in a less severe curve than usual. I take this as a personal victory.

“You’re on time, I notice.

—I almost wasn't.

—What made you decide?

— Curiosity. Again.

I shake my head laughing and follow him into the gallery. The interior is white, refined, pierced with spotlights which cut the darkness into islands of light. Photos of Charlotte, my childhood friend, cover the walls. Rooftops of Paris at dawn. Zinc, slate, stone fireplaces, dormer windows. Perspectives that no one ever sees because no one looks up at six in the morning.

— Do you know the photographer? asks Kévin, stopping in front of a photo of the Saint-Jacques tower taken from the roofs of rue de Rivoli.

— Charlotte. We grew up together in Nantes. She always had a camera in her hand. She said she wanted to capture the light before the world damaged it.

— Poetic.

— She’s a poet. Finally, a poet who takes photos. A photetes.

— Photète. The word does not exist.

—It’s been around since I invented it three seconds ago.

He turns his head towards me. This dark look which searches, which probes, which deciphers. I'm starting to get used to it, even though it still gives me the same effect: an electric shock down my spine.

— Do you invent a lot of things?

—Only when reality is not enough for me.

—And right now, is she enough for you?

I stare into his eyes.

- More and more.

An angel passes. A real one this time. Not a suicidal pigeon. Kevin holds my gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary, then turns away to the next photo.

“This one is different,” he said, pointing to a slightly off-frame print. Look at the grain. It almost looks like paint.

— Charlotte made a series on film. She says digital is for people in a hurry. Film is for those who accept the wait.

—I like this idea.

—That doesn't surprise me. You're a specialist in waiting, right? Wait before responding to messages, wait before coming, wait before trusting.

— You have a point.

— Just one?

— For now.

He walks away towards the next shot. I follow him, a stupid smile plastered on my lips. Charlotte, who is chatting with guests at the other end of the room, sees me and says hello discreetly. I respond with a nod. Later. For now, I'm busy deciphering the Kevin enigma.

- And you ? he asks suddenly, stopping in front of a photo of the Sacré-Cœur basilica shrouded in mist. Are you more digital or film?

- Me ? I'm more of a Polaroid type.

- That's to say ?

—Immediate. Impulsive. Sometimes blurry. But authentic.

He nods thoughtfully.

— I think I prefer the Polaroid.

- Really ?

- Really. Digital cheats. Film expects too much. The Polaroid is the moment. Raw, imperfect, irremediable.

I have the impression that we no longer talk about photography at all.

— You know what, Kevin? I say, my heart beating a little too fast. If you keep saying stuff like that, I'm going to come to believe that you're not as elusive as you make yourself out to be.

—I never claimed to be elusive. I said I wasn't staying.

— Nuance.

— Fundamental nuance.

We stare at each other. Two magnets which still hesitate between attraction and caution. I'm looking for a retort when a cheerful voice bursts out behind us.

—Laura! You came.

Charlotte rushes at me and hugs me. She smells of vanilla perfume and photo film, a combination that instantly takes me back to our teenage afternoons strafing my parents' garden.

- Let me introduce you to Kevin, I say, freeing myself. A friend.

“Friend,” Charlotte repeats, eyeing Kevin with undisguised curiosity. Enchanted. Do you like photos?

— These, yes.

— Oh, a terse compliment. I adore. Laura, are you hanging out with mysterious people now?

“I try,” I reply, laughing.

Charlotte leaves us to welcome other guests, not without whispering “He’s hot but he’s scary” in my ear. I watch her walk away, biting my cheek.

— She’s nice, comments Kevin.

— You say that without enthusiasm.

— I think so without enthusiasm. It's different.

I laugh. A real, loud laugh that I can't hold back. And there, for the first time since we’ve known each other, Kévin does something extraordinary.

He smiles.

Not a shadow of a smile. Not a hint of irony. A real smile, brief but undeniable, which transforms his face and takes my breath away.

“You should do this more often,” I whisper.

- What ?

- Smile.

The smile faded almost immediately, as if he remembered that he wasn't allowed to. But I saw it. There is somewhere in him a buried joy, a forgotten muscle, a spark that life has not quite snuffed out.

“I’m hungry,” he says abruptly.

- Pardon ?

- Hunger. Since just now. Can we eat somewhere?

The turn is so abrupt that it takes me three seconds to land.

- Yes. Yes of course. There is a small Thai restaurant on the corner. Cheap, no hassle.

— Let's go.

He heads towards the exit without checking to see if I am. I take one last look at Charlotte who gives me an exaggerated thumbs up, and I follow in Kevin's footsteps into the Parisian night.

The restaurant is tiny, six tables pushed together, paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, the smell of lemongrass and coconut milk filling the air. We sit near the foggy window. The menu is laminated, the dishes have numbers.

—What are you taking? I ask.

— 23. Chicken with cashew nuts.

— Classic.

- Effective.

We order. The server is fast, almost urgent. The plates arrive steaming. I pick at my pad thai while observing Kévin who eats with intense concentration, as if he hadn't swallowed anything since the day before.

— Do you always eat so quickly?

- Always.

- For what ?

— Because I've had times when food wasn't guaranteed. So when it's there, I eat it. Without hanging around.

The echo of his six months in a car resonates within the walls of the Thai restaurant. I swallow my banter.

- I understand.

—I don't want you to understand. I just want you to know.

—It’s the same thing.

- No. Understanding is intellectual. To know is to accept.

I put down my fork.

—Then I know. And I accept.

He fixes his eyes on mine with an intensity heightened by the darkness of the restaurant.

- Really ?

- Really.

— Even if I tell you that I stole to eat during these six months?

My throat tightens.

“Even if you tell me that.

— Even if I tell you that I slept in parking lots, that I begged once, that I looked away when cops asked me for my papers?

— Even if you tell me all that.

He takes a long breath. His fingers tighten around his fork.

— You're not running away.

—I told you. I'm not running away.

- For what ?

I'm thinking. Really. Not to find a pretty answer, but a true answer.

— Because you’re not running away either. You are here. You talk to me. You show me things you don't show anyone. And I take these things. All. Even the ugly ones.

A long silence settles in, but it is not heavy. It is inhabited. Full. Like a room that would be slowly furnished.

—Laura.

- Yes ?

— You're the first person in years who doesn't make me want to leave.

My heart silently explodes. A discreet fireworks display that I keep to myself. I smile softly, my eyes stinging.

—Then don't go.

— Not this evening.

He picks up his fork again, eats a bite of chicken with cashew nuts. The conversation shifts to lighter things. His job. The last album he mixed, an indie rock band I've never heard of but he talks about with passion. His colleagues. The recording studio perched in the 18th arrondissement, a former printing works transformed into a cathedral of sounds.

— Will you take me there?

- Maybe.

—Maybe, it’s better than not.

— With you, everything is better than not.

I make a mental note of this sentence, I engrave it in a corner of my memory, because it looks like a step. One step towards me. A step away from the void.

We finish the meal. He insists on paying, I let him. Outside, the night is cool, the sidewalks are sparkling after an unheard downpour. We walk up Rue de Turenne in silence.

— Shall I take you back? he suggests.

— At the party, it was you who told me that you weren’t pretending. Don't start.

- Pardon ?

—If you accompany me, it’s out of politeness. And politeness is a form of pretense.

He cashes in. Think about it. Then:

— I'm walking you back because I want to walk with you. Not out of politeness.

— So yes.

We cross the Marais, then the quays, then the bridges. Paris at night is an open-air secret. The street lights trace orange halos on the cobblestones, the Seine carries golden reflections, and Kévin walks beside me, silent but present. Totally present.

In front of my door, rue des Écoles, we stop.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say. The exhibition, the restaurant, the walk. All.

—It’s my turn to thank you.

- For what ?

“Because you didn’t ask me to be someone else. Not once.

I'm moving forward. Very slightly. Just enough to enter his bubble.

“I will never ask you that. It's you I want. Not a version of you.

He raises his hand, hesitates, then places two fingers on my cheek. A tiny, almost invisible gesture. But his skin is warm, and this contact passes through me like a gentle blade.

— Good night, Laura.

— Good night, Kevin.

He removes his hand, takes two steps back, then three. Turn on your heels. Sinks into the night. I stay on the threshold until his black silhouette disappears at the corner of rue Saint-Jacques.

In my apartment, I lean against the closed door and press my hand against my cheek, where his fingers rested. The heat is already gone, but the imprint remains.

I don't turn on the light. I stay in the dark, standing, and I smile stupidly in the darkness. The neighbor's cat must be looking at me through the window and thinking I'm losing my mind. He's not wrong.

I lost it. Completely.

To be continued...