Page 115 of Impulse Control
I told myself a lot of things while I dressed.
I drank coffee standing at the counter, not even tasting it, and checked my gear thoroughly. Battery. Cards. Backup cards. Lenses cleaned twice. Strap adjusted. Everything tidy and in its place. Everything orderly.
If I made myself precise enough, maybe I’d feel steady again. The city outside was still damp from a night of rain. I never really understood just how much it rained in Paris in the autumn. But an umbrella had also become a part of my regular kit check. It was getting colder by the day as November bore down on us.
This morning, though, Paris glistened like it was trying to look innocent. I didn’t buy it. I left a little earlier, made it to the métro, then I was on set fifteen minutes early.
Thatmattered.
The shoot was for a small brand campaign—minimalist, high-end, everything in soft cream and beige, with a sophisticated if effortless air. Turning a single word concept into a full on shoot took a lot of effort. We were in a converted space with tall windows and white walls for our canvas. The team in charge of dressing the set and getting the lights ready moved with a kind of efficient ease and shorthand developed over months of working together.
René was already there, of course.
He stood near the monitor with a coffee that looked untouched in his hand, coat still on, scarf loose at his throat. He didn’t greet me when I walked in. He didn’t have to. His acknowledgment was subtle—one glance, a small nod, and then his attention slid back to the set.
It was the closest thing he did to welcome.
I hovered at the edge until he flicked his fingers, a silentcome.
When I stepped closer, he handed me a lens without looking at me.
“Switch to the eighty-five when we move to the window,” he said.
Just instructions. Just trust. My chest loosened half an inch.
“Yes,” I said.
He finally glanced at me then—brief, assessing. “You ate?” he asked.
The question startled me because it shouldn’t have existed. He never asked me about stuff like that.
“Of course,” I lied.
His eyes narrowed, but he glanced away again without comment.
“Good. Watch the light. It will change fast.”
And that was it.
Forgiven.
Or at least… still useful.
The shoot itself ran smooth, the kind of controlled calm that reminded me of how behaved a schedule could be. I stayed close, handed him what he needed before he asked, adjusted reflectors when the highlights started to blow, moved cables out of the way without being told. When the model shifted, I caught it in my peripheral and compensated with the settings without thinking too hard.
I didn’t let my hands shake.
I didn’t let my brain get ahead of my body.
I didn’t let anything slip.
René didn’t praise me. René didn’tdopraise. But halfway through the second look, he said quietly, without looking up?—
“Good.” One word.
It hit me like a sedative.
I could breathe again.See?I told myself.You’re fine.
