Accompanied by his muttered curse, I place my prize next to my fork. Each of us now has an open question, and I'll hold mine until he asks me one I can't answer. Because despite the dim atmosphere and the warmth enveloping me with its sense of security, I know I have to be on guard.
He's a stranger who makes his living taking photos. A particular shot can earn him a lot of money. And once he realizes I'm that special shot, he won't hesitate.
That would be the end of my dream.
No scandals atTouch av lyx. That applied then, it applies today, and it will always be the case.
The server serves our food.
"Golden worms, huh," Kjell says, looking at my plate. "Noodles are still your favorite, it seems."
Thoughtfully, I twirl the pasta on my fork and taste it. The carbonara is velvety smooth in my mouth.
How can I keep Kjell from asking questions? Perhaps I should inquire about his profession? That would keep him talking for the rest of the evening, and he wouldn't have time to come up with more questions himself.
"Silence implies consent," he says, pushing a piece of pizza into his mouth. His gaze flickers between me and his grissini.
A question is coming. And something in his expression tells me it will be a tough one.
"Tell me about photography. It's always fascinated me, but I know too little about it," I quickly say, secretly pleased that I've beaten him to it and that I get to keep my valuable question. It's possible that he can read that in my expression.
He shakes his head imperceptibly. "Clever," he says and mutters something that sounds likeclever and beautiful.
I've seen that trick before, so I don't react to it. "Tell me about photography," I repeat with stoic calm.
And indeed, a few moments later, I see something in him give way. As we eat, he talks about lenses and optics, exposure and composition. I only understand half of it, but I still listen to him with enthusiasm. He also shows me pictures on his phone, all powerful nature shots filled with awe and beauty.
Gradually, I lose my fear of difficult questions—not least thanks to the wine, of which both of us drink far too much. Nevertheless, I'm careful not to ask any myself. And as we leave the restaurant hours later, this evening feels effortlessly beautiful.
Each of us still has a grissini. Grinning, I put mine away, perhaps I'll need it later. He does the same with his, and then we step out into the night and start walking toward the hotel.
"That was nice," I say with a sigh.
"Look at that," he replies promptly. "And you didn't want to come at first."
That's true. "Good thing I changed my mind."
"What was going on this afternoon, by the way—"
"Tell me about your childhood. You must have always wanted to be a photographer." I cut him off a bit too hastily. But it's better this way because I can't tell him what was happening with me this afternoon.
He hesitates for a moment. I glance over at him and see his jaw tighten. "There's nothing to say about my childhood. It was a total lie."
Wow. That was so unexpected that I don't know what to think or say. I do nothing more than look at him attentively, and I can see pain in his eyes. Suddenly, my emotions change. The voices of the passersby and the upbeat street music seem distant. It's as if only the two of us are illuminated by a spotlight, while everything else is shrouded in darkness.
"I'm sorry," I say with a voice as fragile as thin glass. Partly because his words remind me of that feeling my mother conveyed to me so often. As if she were hiding something from me. As if she weren't real.
His expression portrays melancholy, even more so than earlier in the hotel hallway. It affects me on a deeper level than before.
I want to do it.
I want to look into his soul. Maybe just to feel less alone with my own shadows. Maybe because I sense how real this moment is.
This man, who walks so closely beside me that we're almost touching and who is clearly wrestling with himself, is more than just his attractive, cheeky grin. I want to understand him, to grasp what moves him.
Out of emotion, I pull a grissini out of my jacket pocket. "Who lied to you?" I ask and place it in his hand, knowing full well that it can't help me there anymore.
But right now, I don't care.
