THIRTY SOMETHING

I am a man of habit. Which makes me somehow predictable. That actually sounds weird to me in a way. I never used to think of myself as being predictable at all. When did that happen? When did I become so obvious? When did it become some kind of ritual for me to step into the Starbucks coffee shop closest to my office every morning? I had absolutely no idea whatsoever.

But it had become such a habit that no matter who was standing on the other side of the counter, they knew exactly what I would order. Most of the time, the barista would already be preparing it before I stepped in the store.

Nevertheless, an unknown pudgy twenty-ish blonde girl greeted me that morning with a fake smile and a question I hadn't heard in months.

"What would you like, sir?"

The moment felt quite odd. I stood there for at least five seconds, unable to remember exactly what I usually ordered. I must have looked lost, because a quite amicable voice came to the rescue.

"Wasn't it easier when all you could order was an espresso?"

I turned to face a thirty-something dark-haired, clean shaved and costume-wearing man who was broadly smiling at me.

"I know exactly what I want," I answered quite plainly before turning back to Miss Pudgy. "Venti Caramel Macchiato, skimmed milk, extra shot, extra hot, no foam."

"Please, " the man added.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, turning back my attention to him.
"You could say 'Please'," he shrugged. "I mean, I would. I'm sure this young person wouldn't mind."

Miss Pudgy overtly blushed and turned to the barista, tentatively repeating my order. "Venti Caramel Macchiato, skimmed milk, extra hot."
I sighed. "Extra shot and no foam, please."

I paid with some loose change and moved along the counter to wait for my drink. The man ordered a Tall Latte, paid and joined me with a smug smile I chose to ignore. The barista handed me my drink for which I thanked him and I strode out of the store. 

As I did everyday — but usually three hours earlier — I crossed the street, walked half a block, punched in a code and entered a large Hausmannian building. The sound of my footsteps echoed in the large marbled hallway as I walked to the elevator.

I waited for a minute or so and the damned machine finally arrived — I have to explain that I particularly hate elevators, the confinement, the apparatus as a whole. I stepped in and pressed "7" on the panel and the doors started to slide back.

"Wait!" someone yelled, throwing a disturbing echo across the hallway.
I wedge my foot in the door so they would slide back open, which they did, revealing the clean-shaven face of the Starbucks customer.
"Thank you," he smiled.
"Are you following me or something?" I blurted out, God only knows why.
"Right. Yep. That's it," he answered, before pressing "6" on the panel.
The front desk.

The doors slid shut again and we stood awkwardly — at least I did, annoyed by the forced intimacy of the confined environment but strangely disturbed by the elaborate mix of aromas composing his obviously expensive perfume, strangely aroused by the sight of his short hair and the side of his neck. I stood there, slowly breathing his scent for what seemed five minutes.

The elevator stopped on the 6th floor, its doors opening on the front desk of the media company I worked for. He stepped out without a word or a look back, striding straight to the desk and the big-breasted-bimbo-of-the-week sitting behind it. The doors slid shut one last time. I rode alone, but his perfume lingered.

* * *

I hadn't even turned my laptop on when David T., Head of the Music Department came rushing in my office.
"Philippe! Thank God, you're here!"
"Should I regret it?" I threw back as the skinny man dropped his bony ass in one of the designer chairs.
"This is the shittiest morning I've had in years," he sighed, "so keep your sarcasm to yourself, would you?"
"What's up?"
"I have a fucking world tour starting the day after tomorrow in Paris and the star is stuck in Chicago, in custody for statutory rape."
I was floored. "Don't tell me you're talking about...?"
"Yep. Him."
"No fucking way."
He nodded.
"Fuck," I let out.
"My sentiment exactly."
"Does he have an attorney? What time is it over there?"
David checked his watch. "It's 4:00am, and yes he has an attorney. It's him who actually called me half an hour ago."
"Do you have the attorney's cell?" I asked, reaching for the phone on my desk. "Our guy's not gonna come out for at least a couple of days. I need to get in touch with the girl and her parents and find a way to settle this."
"The boy's parents," David corrected.
"Really?" I was utterly surprised. I would never have thought... 
Anyway.
"David, we need to contain this."
"Too late. It's been leaked. The guy's already a trending topic on Twitter."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"Again, my feeling exactly."

David's cell rang with some stupid song. 
"My daughter played with it," he apologized. "Don't know how to change it back."
I pretended I cared with a weary smile. 
"Yes?" he answered, before nodding repeatedly and turning bright red. "What?? Already? Where? We're coming down." He hung and rose to his feet. 
"Orange representatives are here. Waiting downstairs."
"How much have they invested again in this?"
He smirked back as we rushed out of my office. 

The conference room on the sixth floor was surprisingly empty. I was expecting an army of lawyers and managers. Only two men were chatting when we entered, one with his back at me. I instantly recognized the neck and the scent as the Starbucks man turned to face us.

"Victor Desmouy," said the one I didn't know, extending his hand.
I shook it as he turned to Mister Starbucks and said: "Jérôme Rathers, our attorney on this matter."
Jérôme extended his hand as David introduced me: "Philippe Guerrand. Our attorney on any matter."
We shook hand quite firmly, our eyes locked on each other.
"Nice to meet you, Mister Guerrand," Jérôme smiled. "I've heard a lot about you."

No kidding.

[To be continued]