He told me about the breakup of his marriage, about a girl he'd met in Texas, about his squabbles with his label, Windham Hill. I told him about my job as an editor, how I wanted to move out of town, how I didn't really know what I wanted to do.

We bought sodas at the vending machine and drank them in silence, me suddenly aware of how very odd it was to be sitting there with a stranger, wondering if maybe I wasn't as pretty as I thought I was earlier that evening.

After a couple of hours, it seemed time to leave. He walked me to the front of the hotel and pressed himself against me, his first physical move, and gave me a short, chaste kiss. "It would be nice to sleep with you," he said with the same devious grin he'd had backstage. "But it's so much nicer to actually know someone first." I was amused that the first mention of sleeping with me occurred after I was outside.

He actually took my number. The hero worshipper in me believed he would call. The sober realist didn't.

He didn't.