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.