The sketch

In love with his gaze

Chapter 3 — The sketch

The black coffee is steaming in Kévin's hands. He hasn't had a sip yet. As for me, I finished my cold tea a long time ago and I fiddle with my spoon as if it held the key to the universe.

- SO ? I say, to break a silence that is starting to weigh on me.

—So what?

— You're curious. That's what you said when you arrived. Curious as to why I want to put the fragments back together.

He puts the cup down. The gesture is slow, precise, as if he weighs each movement before executing it.

- Yes.

—And does your curiosity satisfy itself or do I need to talk?

The shadow of a smile crosses his face. Fleeting. Almost a reflex that he represses.

- Speak. I'm listening to you.

I expected anything but that. That he gives me the floor without taking it back, without cutting it off, without drowning it under a layer of irony. I breathe.

—I've spent a lot of my life pretending, let me begin. Pretending to be cool in high school, pretending to be confident in college, pretending to like guys I didn't like. And then one day I told myself that I was fed up. Fed up with fragments, indeed. People who show you one version of themselves and hide ten others. Tired of impossible puzzles.

—So you're looking for someone whole.

—I'm looking for someone real.

He tilts his head slowly. His long fingers tap the rim of the cup.

- And you ? I ask. Why did you stop trying?

—Who tells you I tried one day?

The answer is clear. Dry, but not aggressive. Observation. I feel like I'm walking on a tightrope.

— Because we don't become like that without reason, I move forward cautiously. People aren't born with armor.

— Some yes.

— Do you really believe it?

He doesn't answer. His gaze drifts towards the window. Outside, a kid blows soap bubbles, a woman in a business suit runs after her bus, a delivery man on a bicycle comes close to death with the composure of a Spartan warrior. Ordinary life continues, indifferent to what is happening at this table.

— My mother died when I was twelve.

The sentence falls like a stone into water. Without warning. Without sleeve effect. Right there, placed between the cup of coffee and the cup of sugar.

I don't know what to say. Everything that comes to me seems insignificant. “I’m sorry”? Too poor. “How did this happen? » Too intrusive. So I do the only thing that feels right: I shut up and look at him. Really. Without trying to fill the void.

— Cancer, he adds after a moment. One year from diagnosis to completion. My father never got over it. He became a shadow in the house. He spoke little, drank a lot. I raised myself from the age of thirteen.

His voice did not tremble. Not once. He tells it like you read the newspaper. Clinical distance. And that’s perhaps the most upsetting thing.

— Kevin…

— Don't say anything. No compassion. No pity. I'm not saying this to make people feel sorry for me. I'm telling you this because you asked. Now you know. The fragments come from there. A puzzle that no one has ever tried to piece together, not even me.

I cash in. My throat feels tight, my eyes sting, but I swallow it all down. He doesn't want tears. He doesn't want any tremors in his voice. He wants the real thing. So I give it truth.

— I want to try.

- What ?

— To piece together the puzzle.

He stares at me. Intensely. His dark eyes seem to probe something deep inside me that I don't yet know. It’s dizzying. It’s as if he could see through my skin, my bones, my certainties.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, Laura.

—And you don't know what I'm capable of.

A silence. Thick, almost palpable. Then a click. Tiny, but noticeable: his jaw relaxes by a millimeter.

“You’re different,” he whispers.

— Different how?

— You are not afraid.

I burst out laughing. A real laugh, nervous, liberating.

—I'm afraid all the time! I've been scared since I saw you, scared since I sent you that message, scared since I sat across from you. I'm terrified, Kevin. But I'm here anyway.

He gestures towards his cup. Takes a sip of the coffee that must have been cold for a while. When he puts the cup down, something has changed in his posture. His shoulders are a little less tense. His neck a little less stiff.

—What do you want to know? he asks.

- All.

— Everything is long.

— I have time.

- No.

— What do you mean, right?

He leans forward slightly. The light from the ceiling light hollows his cheekbones.

— I never stay in one place for long. The people, the cities, the jobs. I'm moving. Always. It's simpler.

— Easier for whom?

— For everyone.

I shake my head. My heart beats faster, but my voice remains firm.

—That’s what you’re telling yourself. The truth is that moving all the time is a way of never getting attached. To never risk losing someone.

He doesn't say anything. I continue.

— You think you protect others by remaining elusive. But above all you protect yourself.

- Possible.

—And you find that satisfying? This dotted life?

—I never said it was satisfactory. I said it was simpler.

The waiter comes by, clears my empty cup, offers another tea. I decline. Kevin orders a second coffee. Time drags on, the café empties, the city buzzes behind the window.

—And your father? I restart slowly. Where is he now?

—Somewhere in the South. We call each other at Christmas.

—Is that all?

— That’s all.

—And the friends?

— I have Lucas. He took me in when I was on the street, three years ago. I owe him a debt of gratitude.

— On the street? I repeat, stunned.

— For six months. After a difficult breakup, I gave up everything. Apartment, job, relationships. I was sleeping in my car.

I imagine Kevin in a car, curled up in a reclining seat, frost on the windshield in the early morning. I imagine the loneliness, the cold, the hunger perhaps. My stomach tightens.

— Was it Lucas who got you out of there?

— He found me a crappy studio, a job in a recording studio. I went back up the slope. But I never forgot what it felt like to be at the bottom.

— Hence your philosophy of fragments.

— Hence my philosophy of fragments, he confirms.

I place both hands flat on the table. An anchoring gesture, as if to say: I am here, I stay, I do not flee.

— Kevin, I didn't come here to save you. I'm not Mother Teresa, I'm not a psychologist, I'm not some crazy person who believes that love cures everything. I'm just a girl who fell for a guy at a party and who felt deep inside that this guy, beneath his armor, his silences and his definitive sentences, was worth it.

— What if you're wrong?

—Then I would have been wrong. It's a risk I'm taking.

He looks at me. Really. Not this peripheral view that he casts on the world. A direct, frontal gaze, which gives me the impression of being the only person in this café, in this street, in this city.

“You don’t protect yourself very much,” he notes.

— Not enough, probably. But that's how it is.

An angel passes. Or rather, a pigeon which crashes softly against the window before leaving squawking.

“I like music,” said Kevin suddenly.

I blink.

- Pardon ?

—You asked me earlier what I liked. I answer you: music. Not just producing it. Listen to it. Very early in the morning, or very late at night, in the dark. Jazz, especially. Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Bill Evans. Guys who played like we breathe.

I smile, surprised and delighted by this unexpected confidence.

— I don't know anything about jazz. My musical culture stops at Beyoncé and Spotify “Chill Sunday” playlists.

—No one is perfect.

— I can learn, right?

— Do you want to learn jazz?

— I want to learn everything you like.

He shakes his head, the shadow of a smile floating on his lips.

—You are incredible. Really.

— Incredibly annoying?

— Incredibly consistent.

It’s the first time he’s given me a compliment that isn’t veiled in distance. I savor it. The café is almost empty, the afternoon is advancing, and I have no desire to leave.

— You know what? I say on impulse. Tomorrow there is a photo exhibition in the Marais. A friend exhibits. Nothing grandiose, shots of Paris rooftops at daybreak. If you want, you come with me.

— What time?

— Seventeen p.m.

—Tomorrow 7 p.m. Note.

I hold back a cry of victory. He said yes. Finally, he said “noted,” which in Kevin language is equivalent to an enthusiastic “yes” among normal humans.

We get up. He pays for the coffees before I can protest. On the sidewalk, the setting sun gilds the Haussmannian facades. We stand facing each other for a moment, hesitant.

—Thank you, I say. For coming. For coffee. For all that.

—It’s me who thanks you.

- Really ?

- Really. Few people want to listen to my stories. Even less hear them.

I gather my courage and place my hand on his forearm. A brief, light gesture, a butterfly that lands and flies away. He doesn't come away.

— See you tomorrow, Kevin.

— See you tomorrow, Laura.

I turn on my heel and walk away down Rue Oberkampf. At the crossroads, I turn around. He is still there, standing in front of the café, hands in his pockets, a black silhouette on a gray sidewalk. He doesn't wave at me. He just looks at me.

And that's enough for me.

When I get home, I call Sophie back to tell her everything.

— He was homeless?! she exclaims.

— Six months. And his mother died when he was a kid.

— Laura, this guy is a suitcase. A big suitcase full of problems.

— It's not a suitcase. It's a library.

- Pardon ?

— A library full of sad books, dog-eared pages, never-finished chapters. And I want to read them. All. Until the end.

Sophie sighs, defeated.

— You will suffer.

- Maybe. But at least I will have experienced something real.

I hang up and lie down on my bed. The ceiling is still the same, cream and cracked at the edges, but it seems larger to me. I think about the coffee, the confidences, that word he said to me: constant. A very simple word, and yet.

Tomorrow will be the day after the day he didn't plan to come. Tomorrow he will come on purpose. And if I understood one thing correctly about Kevin, it’s that his intention weighs more heavily than all the “I love you” whispered by people who are pretending.

I close my eyes. The jazz of Miles Davis already resonates somewhere deep in my skull, and I promise myself I will learn to love blue notes.

To be continued....