"That's why, darling, it's incredible that someone so unforgettable thinks that I am unforgettable, too," it calls to me. I smile and take another long drag of the Newport wasting away in my hand. It's been nearly half an hour. My impatience is beginning to get the best of me.

I begin to pace back and forth, flicking my dead cigarette into the wet alleyway as I turn to go behind the club. Almost as if on cue, I hear the creak of the stage door as soon as I round the corner. There he stands, the doorway framing him, the light of the bar causing his form to become a silhouette from my field of view. Hesitantly, I enter the band lot, hoisting my pack back up onto my shoulder and taking a moment to fluff my hair up a little.

By the time I get across the lot to the steps where he was standing, it begins to drizzle. Through the tiny sheets of rain I see his wild, checkerboard shirt and a Corona in his hand. He greets me with a smile and a hug.

"Hey, how are you? Did you like the show?" he asks me, putting an arm around me and leaning us both back against the metal rail.

"You were amazing, as per usual. Don't you ever get tired of hearing me tell you how great you are?" I joke.

"Never," he giggles, "and I have to talk to you, by the way."

"Ah, yes, the notebook. What did you think?"

He glances inside the stage door, looking for his other bandmates. None of them seemed to be coming.

"Come here," he orders gently. He takes my hand and leads me away from the steps, bobbing and weaving between parked cars and equipment vans. We stop at the other end of the lot and duck behind the big white van full of their bags and personal belongings. When he leans back against the van and looks down into my eyes, a knot frays and releases in my stomach.

I look up at him without even an educated guess as to what will happen next. All I know is that there are thirteen years between us, and that's just the beginning of the world of differences. I know that in this moment, none of that matters, and the two of us are the same. I also know that the eyes I'm looking into have an immense amount of power behind them. They can clear the air of a concert hall and rip through my photographs. These are the same eyes that have haunted my sleeping and waking dreams since the first time I looked up to the stage and saw them. Neither of us can break the stare.

He whispers my name and I feel myself shiver a little.

"I'll be honest with you. I didn't read all of it. I read maybe 75% of it. I liked what I read, though; I think you're a brilliant poet." He pauses a second, his eyes straining to say more before his lips do. "It got me thinking about a lot of things. I think we need to talk."

"Okay," I reply softly and coolly, nodding.

"You're voluptuous," he says, stretching out the last word. The shivers come back. "For a long time, I just wanted to fondle you and play with you like my own grown-up toy."

As perfect as these words are sounding, I'm wondering where he's going with this. I either allured him with my words or repelled him by my desperation. He seals it with a word I both worship and dread.

"I now respect you far too much for that. To place an uncaring hand on you at all is to disrespect you in a way I could never allow myself to do."

Respect. I want to stop looking into his eyes. I want to break free of him. I want to spill out every muddled thought bouncing around my head. I want to tell him that the fact that he sees me as more of a sex object only makes me want to sleep with him more. That's how it always works with me. The more you want me, the less interest I'll show. But if you see me as a person, if you have respect for me and see every aspect of me but the sexual aspect, it makes me want nothing more than to show it to you. I've won this round, but I've also lost.

He breaks the stare by reaching around my waist. His arms wrap around tightly and his hands rest on my shoulder blades. All I can do is return the gesture. I reach my hands through and run them up and down the track of his back. I can feel our necks lock together as we hold each other. It seems as if we're being compacted into one being. I'm leaning so far into him that one more step could leave me behind him. His poorly shaved cheek tickles my smooth one; his slightly alcoholic breath tickles my ear.

"You are so beautiful. You have a beautiful face, a beautiful body, and such a beautiful heart. Still, the most beautiful part of you by far is your mind." He has just found my most secret of erogenous zones. I continue to stand there, just letting him hold me and advise me.

"You have a beautiful mind. Be careful not to lose it."

It seems as if he's done, but I'm not sure. I try to pull away, but he only draws me closer. He won't let go of me, and the truth is, I don't want him to. I've wanted this, just this moment, this feeling, whatever "this" is, for so long. Here, now, holding me, he is everything. He is the caring mother, the wise father, and the playful brother. He's the guiding god, tempting devil, and passionate lover. He's the friend I thought I was lying to myself and everyone else about having.

"Reading your poetry changed me. I feel new now. You have assets-physical assets-that someone as ignorant as the old me can only dream of taking advantage of. But you have other assets that the new me can only dream of exploring and delighting in."

It's odd, I think, that by just seeing me a few times after shows and reading a book of my poetry, he could see into me so well. I don't argue. I remain in the embrace, appreciating the fullness of the moment.

"You're only eighteen once, darling," he coos into my ear," and you're only eighteen. Your entire life is your choice from here. What happens before you leave here tonight is your choice. The same applies decades in the future, when you're about to utter your last words. Now is decision time."

He holds me just a little closer and affectionately slides his cheek against mine, nuzzling me like a puppy. I'm high on the smells of rainwater, Corona, and his sweat-riddled cologne. I decide that if he wants to hold me here forever, I'll let him, and I listen intently, head resting lightly upon his shoulder.

"You have to decide. You must learn the difference between flaunting and sharing, then find the tiny difference between modesty and humility. Put all that together and choose to walk whichever path is harder." Only now does he let go, gripping me again in those two endless oceans of eyes.

"I've got about twelve, thirteen years on you, give or take, but I'll tell you this much. You've really taught me a thing or two. I refuse to give you the pity and patronizing words that I know you're too good for. But I want you to know that I see things through your eyes and it's no playground to be you. I know that I could never be strong enough to carry myself through your life. You live day-to-day wondering which of the people around you are using you for your body, for your mind, and who is using you for anything simply because they can."

Things are starting to sound a little too close to home. Almost shamefully, I look down to the asphalt of the parking lot. The tips of our boots are touching. I laugh because it's cute and smile because I'm happy. I reluctantly nod because he's right. He pulls up my chin with one finger and we're eye-to-eye again.

"I want you to know something. I haven't the moral decay to use you for your body. I haven't the ignorance to use you for your mind. And I certainly haven't the cunning to simply abuse your kindness and generosity, let alone all of the person you are, for my own cruel amusement. I am as real as you."

I smile up at him. The last sentence echoes through my entire being. For the first time, I notice that he has been holding tight to my biceps. His hands begin to slide up from each arm to each cheek. I can tell that neither of us is sure whether the silent pause is due to admiration of purely hesitation. He leans forward, shutting his beautiful eyes, and begins a brief kiss. I sink into him. This kiss has more behind it than any I've ever known. Something snaps into my head.

"Wait!" I mumble as our lips part. "Don't judge me. I'm not the one who uses my body to get what I want. Everyone else uses my body to get what they want." There is almost a twinge of urgency and desperation in my voice.

He quiets me with a finger to my lips and then pulls me forth by my chin again. He softly places a kiss upon my forehead then cradles my dizzy head against his chest. I feel his fingertips barely tracing paths through my wet hair.

"I already know," he whispers, sweet and low, "you've shown me that already, and much, much more."

He leans back against the van door, and I willingly lean with him, hands to his sides and head to his sweaty chest. The rain that manages to fall past the van pelts us lightly. An urge takes over my body. I can't ignore it anymore. I slide my head up his chest until there is barely an inch between our faces.

"You amaze me," I tell him in a sweet, low voice much like his own.

"No, I just care about you," he offers casually.

"No," I insist, "you amaze me."

I tilt my head to the right and lean in ever so slowly, stretching out the time between our conversation and our kiss into an unbearable couple of seconds. Horns honk from the front of the building and some shouting can be heard. We're both unfazed as our lips touch again. He bends me backward a little, away from the van, wanting to look like the aggressor. My hands hold either cheek and his rest, folded, at the small of my back.

Suddenly, he flips me around and I find my back against the back door of the van. He continues to drag on the kiss we have as he slowly begins to crouch down. When our lips can no longer meet, he places a few tiny kisses down my neck, and then just looks up at me as he proceeds to stoop down. He comes back up moments later, even slower than he went down, sliding his hands up my sides at an intolerable pace. His hands are almost up to my chest when he leans in and delivers a dynamite kiss, lips caressing lips, tongue darting deftly along mine. His kiss is deep, and his hands...

"Now is decision time," I tell him, breaking free of his kiss and his touch. "And I've decided not to cheapen a moment made of what we really need by filling it with what we think we want." I bend his head down and kiss his forehead. He looks up, blinks, and smiles.

"You know, I should probably go," I tell him, even though I really don't want to. I don't know what either of us would say or do if I stayed anyway, so it seemed like the best idea at the time.

"Oh," he simply says, hinting at disappointment yet keeping enough mystery to lead me on. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot." His voice bounces back up and he moves me aside while he fumbles with the back door to the van. I step back, cross my arms, and watch him wrestle with the lock.

"Oh, fuck me!" he swears as the handle refuses to turn.

"Okay..." I think to myself, letting out a little giggle. He doesn't seem to notice.

The door finally swings open, and his bag falls from atop two others and out onto the wet blacktop. He looks at me and shrugs, with a smile. After rummaging around through one of the larger pockets, he produces a familiar blue leather notebook. Still down by the bag, he hands it to me. I take it from him, running my hand along the cover.

"I have something else for you, too. Hang on," he says, nose to the bag and hands hurrying through his belongings.

Out pops a CD. It's his latest solo project, a collection of six songs to serve as a demo. It will only be available for a month, and I didn't think there was any way that I'd ever get a hold of it. A huge smile spreads across my face. By the time I'm done grinning like an idiot, he has his bag packed up and stowed away in the van again. He closes the van door tightly and leans back against it, one leg up.

"I can't take this," I tell him modestly.

"Yes you can," he says.

"No, no I can't. I have money. I'll pay you for it. How much do you want?" He laughs.

"After tonight..." he starts, but trails off. "Think of it as a gift."

I thank him and we share a big hug. He plants a peck on the side of my cheek, just under my ear. We let go and walk back toward the club, his arm around my shoulder and mine around his waist. We get back to the stage door and he ascends a couple of the steps, leaning forward with a hand on each railing.

"So you're going to get going?" he asks, stating the obvious like a line from a bad date movie.

"Yeah," I reply with a nod. Oddly enough, this was the first time the whole evening that I'd felt nervous. I was never good with good-byes, especially ones that can't guarantee the next time I'd get to say hello again. To alleviate the tension, I get up on the first step, him looming over me, and we peck each other on the lips again.

"Thank you," I tell him, trapped in his eyes again after we separate.

"No," he says to me, "thank you." He smiles.

I turn to walk away, giving him a little wave. He calls after me.

"Hey! By the way, I left you something. Read it and see behind it for what it really is. It's the only way I could get out my true feelings on what I read. It's in between some pages in your diary." I stop, taking a few steps backwards.

"I'll read it," I say, "but it's just a book of poetry. It's not really my diary." From where I'm standing, the raindrops paint a blurry picture of him closing his eyes and nodding at me.

"Yes it is," he replies. He gives me a wink and his trademark bad-boy smile, eyes boring holes through me despite the rain. And then he heads inside with the others.

I take this time to open up the journal and see what he gave me. Towards the end of the book, a napkin falls out, scrawled upon with black pen, the writing all too familiar. On one side is a hurriedly scribbled poem and on the other side is his autograph as well as this:

"Keep writing, feeling, releasing, and getting to know who pushes your pencil. Best wishes."

Despite how his words move me, how his eyes refuse to leave my memory, how his kiss still lingers on my lips and his scent still hangs in my clothes, what I'm really thinking about is my best friend.

"To kiss your favorite celebrity, all you need to do is get a hug from them, " I once told her. "When they hug you, just move." I laugh to myself, thinking about how, on the phone when I returned home, I'd tell her all about how I didn't have to move.

I reach in the backpack hanging from my shoulder and pull out a picture of him hugging me backstage from the previous fall, wrapping the napkin in half around it and placing it nicely in between two pages. It's beginning to rain harder, so I place the notebook and CD in my bag and tie it up tight.

Looking back at the stage door, I swear I see him looking out the glass at me. I shake my head and walk out of the lot and into the alley. The stage door creaks and I look back. He's standing out on the stoop again, waving to me with a warm smile on his face and a far-off look in his eye. I smile back, and give a little wave, too. Even the sheets of rain can't slice through our stare. I try to thank him with my eyes and I think he's trying to kiss me with his. We share our look for a good minute, or what was a few seconds that seemed like a few hours.

I'm finding it increasingly hard to believe my life. I hoist my bag up on my shoulder again, smooth over my soaking hair, standing stationary in the center of the alley as the two of us gaze into each other's eyes. And then, he gradually slides out of my view as I turn the corner around the building and out of the alley...