Near Love Stories
by J. B. Hogan

The waitress saved him further embarrassment by returning for their order. They both ordered veggie sandwiches and he went ahead and ordered a beer. After they ate he made a serious attempt to explain both his work and his reason for wanting to meet her.

"Over the years," he recounted, hoping he wasn't going to come off like the egocentric pontificator he was sometimes accused of being by his friends, "I've written for lots of reasons. The hope of making money, gaining acclaim, literary pretensions, you name it. I've gone through all those stages and more. Finally I've gotten to the point where I just write because it's what I do. Good or bad. I seem compelled to do it, so I just do. As for what it's about - I've thought about that a lot, too. I'm guessing it's basically realistic writing with a sociological bent; I don't really know for sure."

"That sounds very deep," she said when she was sure he was through.

"It's deep alright," he smiled at her. "Right up to the hip boots."

She laughed happily and shook her head. He sighed, sighed like he had at the first concert of hers that he ever attended. It was in Boulder at a converted theatre made into a bar and music venue. He told her about it.

"I was so … so overwhelmed," he admitted, "by the beauty and purity of your voice that it actually hurt. You and the band were really wonderful, but hearing you reminded me that I hadn't done anything of my own that was creative or good enough to get published yet and realizing that was very painful to me."

"I'm sorry," she said, frowning.

"Oh, no, no," he hurried to reassure her, "don't be sorry. You were fantastic. I just had an odd, self-centered reaction to the concert a couple of times there. Believe me, they were negligible compared to what I felt overall, which was how terrific you and your group were. Don't get me wrong."

"Well, thank you," she said, looking at him with what he hoped was something like interest.

"Thank you," he said, causing her to smile. He took a deep breath.

"So, if you're not a reporter," she asked, after another pause, "then why did my manager say this was an interview?"

"I guess it was sort of my only way to get to meet you without you thinking I was just a crazed, stalker kind of fan." She laughed her lovely laugh. "I wanted to try to meet you on something like equal ground. You know, artist to artist. If you'll forgive me putting myself in that or your category."

"Goodness," she smiled, "you have an awfully low opinion of yourself."

"And deservedly so," he said without irony or humor.

"Well," she said, not knowing what else to say.

"Anyway," he pushed on, "what I would like to do, if it isn't too stupid, is give you a copy of my latest book."

"Why that would be really nice," she said. He scanned her face for signs of that irony and humor that were so common to him. It didn't seem to be there but her lovely eyes did twinkle.

"I don't know if it's the kind of book you would even like," he said, "but it's all I have to give you, to thank you for your great gift and work."

"That's very kind of you," she said sincerely. "Thank you."

"Thank you," he repeated her again. She didn't laugh or even smile. He took a hardbound copy of the book from his briefcase and handed it to her.