“I don’t even know what your definition of that is,” he says. “Ordinary for me is signing things and having people crying on me and telling me they love me and saying they like to have sex to my music.”
My brows are so high. I don’t know if they’ll ever come down. “It’s weird, because many of us have sex to music, but it’s not like we make a point of sharing that sort of thing with the musician.Just because they made the tunes doesn’t mean they consented to hearing about our sex lives.”
“I definitely need to know now what music you play though.”
“None of your business,” I say. “What do you even say when people tell you stuff like that?”
“Smile and nod and keep moving.”
“Sounds sensible.”
“Parasocial relationships are so strange,” I say. “The idea that you believe you know a complete stranger because you watch their films or listen to their music.”
“Fame as a whole is wild. How you’re portrayed in the media doesn’t necessarily have a hell of a lot to do with who you are as a person.” He sighs. “The more they talked about me, the less I recognized myself. It’s like every think piece and social media post chips away at you.”
“That sounds incredibly hard.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you’ve gotten away from it for a while.”
“My face feels so weirdly bare.” He stands with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands stuffed out of sight beneath. Like he’s bracing for something or trying to make himself smaller. Neither of which are good options.
“Turn this way,” I say, facing the street. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.”
“Okay.”
“How does the sun feel?”
He smiles and doesn’t move for a minute. And the light on his skin, how relaxed he seems, makes me want to take a photo or two. Which would most probably definitely be a weird thing for me to do. “Good,” he says. “It feels good.”
“This coffee really is excellent.”
“Simple pleasures, huh?” he asks. “Our lives should be made of them.”
“You’re right. I listened to the birds as I walked into town. Such a pretty and relaxing sound.”
“Yeah. I like the hiss of the espresso machine,” he says. “So many good connotations. What else have you got?”
“Looking at the stars and spending time with people who don’t drain you. Both of which relate to you in a way.”
He laughs softly as he soaks up some more sun. “You’re pretty sparkly yourself.”
“What would you normally be doing at this time of day?”
“I wouldn’t normally be conscious,” he says, turning back to face me with a half-smile. “My tour recently finished, and I used the downtime afterward to plan this escape. Otherwise by now I’d be writing the new album. I write on my own, so it’s a lot of long, lonely hours while people are waiting on me to get into the studio and start recording.”
“And you had a housekeeper and other people who organized everything for you?”
“Pretty much. Audrey turned those houses into homes. I missed her when she left.” He checks out the paintings, drawings, and sculptures in the shop window. “But I’d have breakfast. Go to the gym. Meet with my assistant and manager. Then lock myself away for the rest of the day. Promo and press are paused during the writing phase. Don’t need those dickheads getting into my head.
“I usually got a good break and more than a few drinks in during the downtime after the tour. Catching up with friends and things like that. So at the end of the day or night, as the case may be, it’s another update with my assistant, gym again ’cause sitting down all day drives me wild, dinner, usually a movie or some gaming, and then bed.”
“You’re not allowed lunch?”
“Audrey used to bring me snacks, smoothies, or adult beverages as required.”
“Sounds structured.”
