“We’ve probably seen each other around,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Do you ever go to Milk?” I asked her, and she made a face that would suggest to an outside observer that I had just asked her whether she was in the habit of drinking spoiled milk, rather than visiting a club.

“Uh, sometimes, but it’s rare,” she said. “What could it… Oh, I think I must’ve seen you at… the coffee place on Santa Monica. Um…”

“At Parkland? Okay, that makes sense. I go sometimes.”

“Me too. It’s near my house.”

This was, I felt, my cue to say something totally cool and suave like, ‘well, the coffee there is pretty good, so maybe we could get some sometime,’ (or possibly something that was actually suave, but whatever). Unfortunately, Kit Porter decided that that was the exact moment she should start singing, so we both snapped to attention.

The whole thing, I have to admit, sort of made me want to dig out my old Kit Porter CD-or, okay, fine, it’s a cassette tape. It made me want to buy a Kit Porter CD or two. The whole thing was great, and the ***** little dive of a club had suddenly turned into a smoky, jazz-filled, classy little place, all because one lady had walked onstage. I turned to Bette to see if she was as entranced as I was and witnessed the formerly charming and level-headed girl with her arms crossed and a petulant pout on her pretty features, as if Kit Porter was doing something to deliberately annoy her.

Whatever the ***** that story was, I was interested. I guess you could attribute that to my being nosy as *****, but I think it’s fair to point out that at least a small part of it had to do with my almost immediate fondness for Bette.

After a couple songs, Bette seemed to relax. In fact, she relaxed so much that every time I glanced over at her, she seemed to be rather entranced, a glassy-eyed stare thing going. I don’t even know if she blinked. I was even more curious at that point, but I was also brainstorming on ideas of how I could score the interview with Kit Porter, so I couldn’t really concentrate on too many things at once.

This meant this, though-once Kit Porter’s set was over, I had to turn to Bette and say, “Well, I better ambush her about the interview.”

Bette nodded slowly. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You, too. Maybe I’ll see you at Parkland.”

She smirked slightly. “Maybe.”

After another moment, I saw no other option but to just leave. No phone number. I’m usually really good at getting a girl’s phone number, but-I mean, it’s hard to explain, but just the thought of asking Bette for her phone number gave me chills. It just wasn’t happening.

Bette Porter is… I don’t know. She’s just a different kind of girl. There’s no manipulation there. That’s what I think half of dating is-manipulation. Even if it’s in a good way, like, “how can I manipulate events so that I can have this person in my life?” And especially with girls, it’s just all about manipulating things to make them how you want them.

But you never consider manipulating Bette Porter. It’s just unthinkable. And I knew that from the moment I met her. I knew that I had walked into Bette Porter’s life and now everything was out of my control. *****, I was just along for the ride.

And what a ride it was.