Dearest Kit

Chapter Twenty One

This chapter kind of means a lot to me because it invovles a character I look up to a lot, please tell me what you think. It matters to me :) 

   Before, the lights and the cameras and the journalists had felt colossal, in comparison to my small figure, when stood against a single person. However, now I felt like I could hold my own a little more, like I could rival the lights and noise and movement radiating from the city. I wasn’t anonymous anymore, I had a name, and people knew that name, and for the first time in my life, it felt as if the universe was listening. I liked it, I liked being known; I liked the fact that people were starting to recognize me as a human being, and not just another particle, roaming aimlessly through the abyss. 

   “You don’t mind as much?” Kit asked, continuing to smile for the cameras, putting on that front he used when he was around other people, when he was paraded in front of the world as this handsome picture of perfection. 

   “I’m getting used to it,” I shrugged, touching my cold fingertips to one of my shoulders, feeling the bone beneath the skin, the dips and ridges. “Because, this is going to be my life,” I uttered into his ear, “this is how I want it to be.” 

   “Most people would have run away by now,” Kit replied, and there was something grateful about the way he spoke; as if he was thanking me for being with him. 

   “Most people are idiots, it’s a well known fact you know?” I grinned, and he began to chuckle, walking me further down the carpet. He stroked his thumb over the front of my hand, where the skin still felt smooth and innocent. 

   “I get this feeling, Lana,” Kit started, but his name was being called urgently by reporters by the barriers, “I get this feeling that,” he looked over to the journalists and sighed, running his fingers through his hair in aggravation. 

   “What?” I prompted, frowning. 

   “I just,” he sighed, “I’ll tell you later, come on, we don’t want to be late.” 

   Once we entered the cinema, a few people stopped to talk to us, the director, a few of the producers, complimenting Kit. We were loitering for quite a while, offered glasses of expensive champagne, another thing I found odd considering the fact that a couple of months ago I couldn’t so much as get served in a bar. 

   “Look over there,” Kit whispered, his eyes focusing on something over my right shoulder. 

   “Where?” I queried, doing as he said and peering behind me. 

   “Right there,” he held me by the shoulders and pointed his index finger over my shoulder, to an older guy probably in his early sixties. I still didn’t immediately recognize him, he just seemed like another movie producer, with salt and pepper hair and messy stubble. “That’s Don DeLillo.” I turned back round to face him and gasped, widening my eyes until they were almost perfect circles. 

   “No way!” I whispered, touching my fingertips to my lips gently. 

   “You should go talk to him,” he urged, but I just shook my head vigorously. 

   “I couldn’t,” I replied. 

   “I need to go use the toilet, I dare you to go over there when I’m gone,” Kit suggested, smoothing one palm across his abdomen, flattening out the creases and emphasizing how flat and toned his stomach was. 

   “I’ll try,” I nodded, although my voice was strained. 

   “Good, I’ll only be a minute,” he kissed my cheek before slipping off towards the bathrooms. I took a deep breath and turned around slowly, moving my fingers strenuously over my neck, debating whether or not to go over to him and start a conversation. After a few minutes of standing on my own, I rolled back my shoulders and took a step towards the author, followed by another, and another. It was only when I was about a meter away that I started to think of what to say first, how to introduce myself, but he looked up before I could utter a single word.