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meal with a woman besides drunken diner escapades during the interval between heavy drinking and the promise of sex. She knew her way around a kitchen, which somewhat surprised me. I took her for a fast food junkie, and I was impressed when she chose to add fresh cilantro to our omelets. I was glad she was a coffee drinker, I honestly believe there is something mentally unbalanced in people who don’t require caffeine to kick start their day.
    Cooking is a long time passion of mine, and it was nice to share breakfast with someone who didn’t drown her eggs in ketchup or pour a ton of salt on everything. We ate mostly in silence, but the list of questions I wanted to ask was growing.
    “Are you bi, Janine?” Perhaps not the best choice for question number one, but it was nagging at me.
    “Well, I guess you would say that. I’ve only had sexual encounters with women; my relationships have all been with men. I’m one of those ‘refuse to define myself by society’s standards’ kinds of people. Although, I believe I’ve only had sex with women and not relationships simply because I haven’t found the right woman. Maybe you’re the right woman.”
    She said this so casually I couldn’t decide if I was irritated or thrilled. I’d been a biology experiment before, and hated it. I decided she was just being honest. We’d spent one night together. How could I expect her to see me as anything other than an opportunity, a chance at fleeting happiness?
    “I won’t ask you the same question,” she said. “I can tell the difference between a real lesbian and all of the rest.”
    I could tell the shields had been raised back up on both sides. Breakfast over; the day half gone, neither one of us was about to bring up the topic of only an hour ago that was already a distant memory. I would remember what she had said about us for years to come, and about my own reminiscent feeling the night before and the simple pleasure of being alone with a woman who said “fuck” a dozen times during a concert yet quoted Helen Keller in private company.
    In time, I would feel as if the words she had said to me 21
     
    earlier that day were the only truly honest words she’d ever spoken to me.

    * * * *
    Embarking on a relationship with any artist, regardless of the trade, is shaky ground at best. Should I have declared, “Well, if you’re fucking guys, I really don’t think this is going to work out?” I wouldn’t have said that because it wasn’t true. We certainly couldn’t be considered “serious” after one night, but I did want to be with her. If she had told me that not only did she do men, she strictly did men with three heads, I still would have welcomed her into my bed.
    New territory carries with it an air of recklessness. If I were going to pursue this, I would have to do it based on instinct.
    Instinct told me that, in time, other sexual relationships would dissolve, for both of us. If they didn’t, well, I figured I’d cross that bridge when I got there. I’d had my share over the years. I enjoyed last night’s romp, but didn’t consider it sex, more like aided masturbation. And, although I already felt a sexual intimacy with Janine, my priorities were elsewhere. Nestling on the couch with her, touching her and reading over her shoulder, these were the things I wanted to recapture first and foremost.
    As the great Jim Morrison once said, “I have plenty of people to fuck but no one to talk to.”
    “So, what do you think you might want to do today, my sweet?” She asked like an eighteenth century maiden. As she did, I noticed her eyes darted to the living room in the general area where the eight ball remained untouched.
    “Well, I suppose we could let it snow and go out to explore the world.”
    Why not? I gathered we’d do some bar hopping and cruise the parks, like any other coked up New York couple on a Sunday afternoon.
    To my surprise, she said, “Do you fish?”
    Did I fish? I had a wealth of