Perfect

Ryan Gosling is not perfect.

I repeat the words over and over in my head while brandishing a hyena smile. My cameraman and I were standing in the doorway to the media junket, me nervously picking lint off my black blazer and him tapping buttons on the camera. I stepped to the left the slightest bit and I could see Ryan, feigning brooding thoughtfulness and looking the opposite direction as the interviewer.

The interview was over in a few minutes and some of the many lights clicked off. Ryan stood and shook hands with the interviewer, face splitting in a ruggedly handsome smile. If you’re into that sort of thing. Then he posed with the interviewer as someone took a picture, Ryan’s face becoming instantly serious and pensive, the way men take pictures for whatever reason.

My cameraman, Tim bustle through the rest of the media to set up his equipment where the previous team was tearing their down. He made quick work of his tripod and I begrudgingly walked into the staged interview area.

Ryan was standing off to the side, having quite words with an older woman, probably a handler, and sipping out of a white ceramic tea cup. He was frowning and she kept checking her watch. Then she saw me standing in front of the mini stage that held the black leather chairs for the interviewer and clapped her hands together, smiling. She pointed to me and Ryan glanced over his shoulder and smirked, handed the woman his cup and stalked over to me.

“Anna.” He said curtly.

I held my fake smile, “Ryan, good to see you again.”

“Is it?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course! Congratulations on the new movie, I’ve heard good things.” I said, flattening the back of my hair, nervously.

“Haven’t seen it.” He says dismissively, jumping up onto the platform, ducking under the fake ceiling and lights and holding his hand out to me.

Some of lights turn on, illuminating us and he closes his eyes, grimacing. He’s wearing a maroon deep v cardigan over a dark grey t-shirt with black skinny jeans rolled over scuffed, once black, leather boots. He plops down in his chair and I smooth my black pencil skirt and perch on the edge of my chair.

I kick myself mentally for wearing a short skirt to an interview where I will appear on camera. I roll the ¾ sleeves of my blazer up a bit and make sure my red lace camisole isn’t too low. I glance up at Ryan and he’s watching me, the left corner of his mouth turned up in amusement. I don my fake, toothy smile again and turn to Tim.

“Hair? Teeth? Sound?” I ask. Tim nods and holds a thumb up over the camera and pulls one side of headphones off his ears.

“You look good.” Ryan says, crossing his legs, definitely putting a knee in my shot.

I bite the inside of my lip as I smile manically. It’s just a five minute interview. And barely even a minute worth of good footage.

Ryan puts the palms of his hands over his eyes and straightens his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Anna, it’s not our first time.” He grins cheekily.

Ryan Gosling is far from perfect.

-

Ignoring his body. Which admittedly is pretty damn Grecian god. He has ridiculous tattoos. And his eyes are just a bit too close together. His clear, piercing blue eyes…

I shook my head and flashed my press badge as I walked out the front entrance of the hotel; behind the barrier and rent-a-cops holding back the screaming girls and paparazzi. I stopped at the back of the hotel, near some trees and shrubberies separating me from a swimming pool. I sneered as I rummaged in my purse for my old, crumpled pack of cigarettes; I took one out and placed it between my lips.

I had been smoke free for months and that jackass had driven me to it, again. Every other interview for the movie had been fine but Ryan fucking Gosling. He couldn’t just give formulaic responses. He couldn’t just smile and fake it, he had to be clever. Ask the interviewers questions. Smart ass.

I held my lighter up to the end of my cigarette and tried to light it. The lighter clicked but didn’t catch fire. So I tried again. And again. Click, click, click, click, click, click.

I threw the empty lighter in my purse and swore under my breath. A lighter clicked to my right and someone stepped forward, holding the flame to the end of my smoke. I sucked in and they flicked the lighter closed.

“Smoking’s bad for you, I hear.”

I inhaled deeply and turned. Ryan Gosling was holding a smoldering cigarette in his right hand, his left hand was in his pants pocket and the corners of his mouth were turned up as he watched me.

I grunted and took long drags, reveling in the menthol and praying the nicotine took the edge off that was brought on by this impossible man. He kicked the ground absently with the toe of his left boot.

“You’re not smiling anymore.” He said.

I grunted again and turned back to the trees, exhaling slowly.

“It’s good, you know, then you don’t have crazy eyes.”

I whipped around and glared at him.

He smiled and took a drag of his cigarette. Then he pointed at me with his right hand, cigarette between his fingers and nodded, blowing out smoke.

“See? That’s a real facial expression. Much better.” He said, eye twinkling.

“How’d you get past the horde of fan girls who want you to sign their Feminist Ryan Gosling books?” I bit back at him in a low voice.

“Umbrella.” He said simply, ignoring my attitude.

I glanced up at the clear blue, typical California sky and nodded, “Yeah, not suspicious at all.”

He put his cigarette between his lips and stretched his arms over his head, his sweater inching up the slightest bit, showing just a hint of the tan, taut, famous abdominal muscles. Despite myself, my eyes were drawn to the area.

He caught me looking and smirked, cocking his head to the side.

“What’s the problem? You don’t like my anymore, Anna?”

I blew smoke in his direction, “I don’t know you.”

“That’s not true, how many times did you interview me last year?” he asked, eyes looking up, trying to recall our interviews.

“Too fuckin’ many.” I said, ashing my cigarette away from my interviewing clothes.

Ryan put his right hand over his heart and gave me puppy dog eyes, “Words hurt.”

I rolled my eyes, “You’re not perfect.”

“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed, this morning.” He said, sassily.

“See, the world thinks you are but I know better.” I said.

“Oh yeah? How?” He asked, taking a step closer to me.

“’Cause you BS your way through all you interviews, telling lies and giving me jack for my producers,” Ryan raises his eyebrows, taking another step making my breath hitch a little bit at the proximity. “And… And you’re eyes are close together!”

Ryan genuinely laughs, flicking his cigarette to the side and putting both hand in his pockets. “You found my Achilles heel.” He says, looking down his nose at me.

I throw my cigarette on the ground and put it out under my black stiletto, “Well, I’m a reporter.”
He smiles and nods and takes another step forward, se we’re toe to toe, inches apart.

“You’re just mad that I didn’t give you a sound bite.” He whispers.

“Yeah, where’s my exclusive?” I ask, looking up at him, the color of his eyes distracting me from the proximity they are to each other.

He blinks rapidly, twice in succession and runs his right hand over his chin stubble. “For you, Anna? Anything.” He bends down, slowly, putting his hand on my cheek and presses his lips against mine. I stand up on my tip toes, kisses back like any normal, heterosexual female would. I tentatively place my hand above his hip, partially to steady myself but mostly because I can and God knows when or if I’d ever get the opportunity, again.

Tim walks nonchalantly around the corner or the building, camera hoisted up on his shoulder, still rolling, “Anna I got the shots of the fans and paps outside so you wanna- Woah!”

Tim looks into the eyepiece of the camera and zooms in on the scene in front of him, Ryan pulls away and I look at Tim over Ryan’s shoulder with wide eyes.

Ryan brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, winks and turns and walks away, nodding at the camera. Tim turns and follows Ryan until he disappears around the corner. Then he turns the camera back on me, out of breath with weak knees.

“So?” Tim asks.

“What do you think?” I ask, straightening my blazer and trying to stop blushing. “Perfection.”