i stopped counting after the twelfth love song. i wanted to see how many of the 69 love songs stephin merritt would sing, but pretty soon it didn't matter and i just hung on each word, like i was dangling on a star, with its light warming my face. he rubbed his head a lot and kept clutching his left ear. instead of taking deep breaths between notes, he took slow draws at his cigarette. he looked like it was so painful to even sit there and play for us.

"unrequited love was the best thing that ever happened to him," michelle said.

earlier in the evening the couple in front of us played paper, rock, scissors. what a wonderful way to touch, i thought. if i am paper and you are a rock, i can cover your hand in mine. if i am scissors and you are paper, my fingers will wrap around yours. it doesn't matter who wins, we still get to touch.

on the way home, we listened to KBIG: the back street boys and the dawsons creek theme and steal my sunshine. the drive down wilshire felt strangely like it was the first -- or my last -- and i closed my eyes for longer than a second to remember how different it looked at this time of night, almost peaceful.