I had thought
forever about what I might do when
Yoshiki walked into my
bookstore.
I'd imagined every possible
scenario, I thought. Would I
cry?
Shit my pants? Start sweating?
Scream? Yoshiki, after all, is essentially my reason for writing - my
muse, inhabitor of my
dreamscape,
soundtrack to my stories. He stands in the background against the
skyscrapers, blowing smoke from a
cigarette. He's the one I look for at
Starbucks, the figure I see when I picture
beauty.
Finally, I figured something out. I'd ask him out for
coffee, which is a wonderfully innocent beginning. I hate coffee, but I started drinking it just for this reason. You're allowed to laugh.
I work in
Encino, which is where he lives. I always knew.
But I didn't. Not really.
Today he walked up to the counter and I said hi without even thinking before looking up and realizing that in front of me was the person who had shaped my soul and given me so much hope and I almost shook as I rang up his books while my brain said
do it do it do it ASK HIM OUT FOR COFFEE DO IT.
So I did, and we had a little conversation, in which he seemed
sheepish at being recognized and sweetly willing to listen to everything. He asked what days and hours I worked so he could come in and see me again and we could maybe skip next door for a drink and a smoke on the stone patio.
I had to curb my brain, which was saying things like
A blind man could see how much I love you.
But I settled for 'Sign here, please,' and a number of smiles.