"No, Victor. A reason. You're making it an excuse."

"You're losing me, baby. This is getting kinda trippy."

"Well, steady yourself."

"Hey, what about a cappuccino?"

"Don't you know who your girlfriend's acquaintances are? Don't you talk to her?" Lauren is losing it. "What's with you-oh god, why am I asking? I know, I know. I've gotta go."

"Wait, wait-I want to get these." I gesture toward the basket of CDs I'm holding. "Come with me and I'll walk you out. I've got band practice but I can squeeze in a latte."

She hesitates, then moves with me toward the registers. Once there, my AmEx card doesn't go through. I moan "Spare me" but Lauren actually smiles-a smile that causes a major deja vu-and puts it on her card when she pays for her CDs and she doesn't even say anything about paying her back.

It's so cold in Tower that everything-the air, the sounds revolving around us, the racks of CDs-feels white, snowed in. People pass by, moving on to the next register, and the high-set fluorescent lighting that renders everyone flat and pale and washed out doesn't affect Lauren's skin, which looks like ivory that's tan, and her presence-just the mere gesture of her signing the receipt-touches me in a way I can't shrug off, and the music rising above us-"Wonderwall"-makes me feel doped and far away from my life. Lust is something I really haven't come across in a long time and I follow it now in Tower Records and it's getting hard to shake off the thought that Lauren Hynde is part of my future. Outside, I put my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the sidewalk crowd to the curb on Broadway. She turns around and looks at me for a long time and I let her.

"Victor," she starts, responding to my vibe. "Look-I just want to make something clear. I'm seeing someone."

"Who?"

"That doesn't matter," she says. "I'm involved."

"Well, why don't you tell me who it is?" I ask. "And if it's that twerp Baxter Priestly I'll actually give you a thousand bucks."

"I don't think you have a thousand bucks."

"I have a big change bowl at home."

"It was"-she stops, stuck-"interesting to see you."

"Come on, let's go get a cafe au lait at Dean Deluca. Sounds hip, huh?"

"What about the band?" she asks.

"Those losers can wait."

"I can't."

She starts to move away. I reach out, touch her arm gently. "Wait-are you going to the Todd Oldham show? It's at six. I'm in it."

"Oh god, come off it, Victor." She keeps walking.

I dart in and out of people's way to keep up with her.

"What? What is it?" I'm asking.

"I'm not really part of that scene."

"What scene, baby?"

"The one where all anyone is interested in is who's f**king who, who has the biggest dick, the biggest tits, who's more famous than whoever."

Confused, I keep following. "And you're, um, not like into this?" I ask, watching her wave down a taxi. "You've got like a problem?"

"I've gotta go, Victor."

"Hey, can I get your phone number?"

Before she slams the door, without turning toward me, I hear Lauren say, "Chloe has it."

19

Chloe and I went to L.A. last September for reasons we never really figured out, though in retrospect I think it had something to do with trying to save our relationship and Chloe was supposed to be a presenter at the MTV Awards, which I remember nothing of except Oscar talk, Frida Kahlo talk, Mr. Jenkins talk, how big is Dweezil Zappa's dick talk, Sharon Stone wearing pajamas, Edgar Bronfman, Jr., coming on to Chloe, only two green Jujyfruits in the box I held while spacing out during the ceremony, and it was all really just Cindy Cindy Cindy and in every photo printed of me-in W, in US, in Rolling Stone-I am holding the same half-empty bottle of Evian.

We stayed at the Chateau Marmont in a giant suite with a balcony twice its size overlooking West L.A. When Chloe didn't want to talk she'd rush to the bathroom, turn on the hair dryer full blast and point it toward my calm, bewildered face. Her nickname for me during those weeks out there was "my little zombie." I tried out for and didn't get the part of a drug addict's friend in a medical-drama pilot that ultimately was never produced but it didn't really matter since I was so out of it I even had to reread things Paula Abdul said in interviews. Chloe was always "dying of thirst," there were always tickets for some lame-o screening, our conversations were always garbled, the streets were always-inexplicably-covered with confetti, we were always at barbecues at Herb Ritts', which were always attended by either Madonna or Josh Brolin or Amy Locane or Veronica Webb or Stephen Dorff or Ed Limato or Richard Gere or Lela Rochon or Ace of Base, where turkey-burgers were always served, which we always washed down with pink-grapefruit iced tea, and bonfires were always lit throughout the city along with the giant cones of klieg lights announcing premieres.