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"What do you mean?"
He laughed. "Well, I mean, are we dating or not?"
I sat bolt upright. "You're married."
His eyes shimmered as if he might cry. "But still."
"Look," I said, holding his hand. "It's complicated. I like you--a lot--but we come from different worlds. You're British, I'm Texan. You're a rock star, I'm a rock critic..."
"At a regional paper," he snorted.
"No need to be cruel, John."
He sighed dramatically. "I just wish you'd told me all this before we had sex."
"We didn't have sex. We kissed twice, and you touched my boob."
"Well, I'm not just some slut, you know," he said, yanking on his control-top boxers. "I wanted this to matter."
In the end, we parted as friends. He gave me a free import copy of the CD, which he signed, simply, "Love, John."
"I've written that a lot of times," he told me, as the taxicab pulled out to take me back to the Super 8. "But this time, I mean it."