Walking beside him is both strange and familiar, with just a hint of impending doom—much like most of our time together. The cautious part of me is whispering that being with him is like wearing the world’s most comfortable pair of shoes that sometimes catapult you headfirst into a wall. It’s like having an allergy to shellfish and refusing to give up lobster. Like knowing you’re about to fall, face-first, into a patch of poison ivy but refusing to halt your steps. His arm brushes against mine as we walk. God, how I itch for him. When we reach the wine bar, he opens the door for me and requests a table in the back. The hostess eye-fucks him within an inch of his life before seating us. He’s oblivious. As usual. I wish I could say the same. I have no business being jealous. I’m sure in the years we were apart, he’s lost count of his conquests. Women have always thrown themselves at him, but his popularity exploded when he was touring Europe. His character spent most of the show shirtless, and when sexy promo shots of him hit the Internet, he had women following him from city to city to see him perform.
