Copyright 2003 Frank Downey. All rights reserved. Any use other than personal archiving requires the permission of the author. Do not repost.

This story contains adult material. If this is illegal where you reside or if you are underage where you reside, begone.

"It was never just about the sex," I told her, right after we had finished just that. "I love you."

"We never go out."

"And whose choice was that?" I reminded her.

"Well, you know. Paparazzi."

"It’s not just that," I sighed. "You’re an international pop star. You’ve dated pop stars, movie stars, that guy—what was he, a prince?"

"Viscount."

"Right. And now you’re with a lowly computer programmer. You’re ashamed of me. You love me, but you’re ashamed of me."

"What?!?!?"

"And you’re in conflict. That’s why you can’t admit you love me. That’s why it’s just about sex."

She looked up at me. "Damn. I’ve hurt you."

"Not really. A little. I understand. But, still—all my friends know I’m seeing someone, but I can’t tell them who. Ashley Sims, and me? They’d never believe it."

"It’s not that I’m ashamed. It’s, well, confusing."

"I know."

"Make love to me again," she pleaded.

That’s where there was no confusion, no hesitation, no conflict. She loved me, and I her, mind, body, and soul. It was perfect. It was always perfect.

Afterwards, curled up beside me, she said, "I do love you. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had, but I knew that from the start. It took me longer to realize that somehow you’ve also become my best friend. I want to be with you." She looked at me. "Are you hungry? I’m famished.’

"Now that you mention it, yes. You want me to call for takeout?"

"No. Let’s go out."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Where?"

"How about Chez Morielle?"

Chez Morielle was the beautiful people hangout. There’d be plenty of superstars and royalty there, there always was. Paparazzi, too. It was a brave and loving gesture, but an unnecessary one.

"I’ve heard the food there sucks," I told her.

"Well," she giggled, "you’re right."

"Joe’s Bar and Grill," I said.

"Huh?"

"It’s a five-block walk. It’s got a little dance floor and a good jazz combo on Friday nights, and the best hamburgers in Manhattan." I looked at her. "But it’s no place for an international pop star, is it?"

"It’s a perfect place for Ashley Sims," she beamed.

On the way out of my brownstone, she asked me, "Do your friends hang out there?"

"Many of them, yes. On a Friday night? Definitely."

"Good!" she said, and took my hand.

--The End—