We kissed all night, sleeping in fits and starts, then woke up to kiss some more ...

Heath was down BK way to hang with Sarah B (internet superstars keep to their own, apparently). We rendezvoused. I don't remember the pretense. I seem to recall that it had something to do a pajama party. But there they were, Bloggeratti Extraordinaire, tossing back two lemon drops to every one of my dirty martinis. Next thing I know, we're all bombed, blogging from my Hell's Kitchen laptop:

[11.9.03 3:00] -- It's 3 a.m. Que Sera Sera and Fish are in the hizza. And we are all bombed. Which is fun.

BW: I'm wearing Fish's pajamas.

FISH: Drunk Fish. Thank God for typing lessons in the 8th grade, and thank God for vodka. Sara B and Benjamin have seen just how long my Laura Ingalls hair is and just how many lemon drops can drink. Sarah B might convert me to lesbianism and Benjamin might make me believe boys should wear pink.

You get the idea. It was a giggly, silly, and perfectly appropriate start to a giggly, silly, and perfect relationship.

Until bedtime.

We were piled into bed together, Heather, Sarah, and me, but, God Bless Sarah (and God Bless her for not mocking us since) for repairing to the living room futon.

I remember knowing it was about to happen. We were too close, talking too softly for it not to. I was torn by attraction/aversion. Not because Heather is anything less than beautiful, or anything less than desperately attractive (have you ever sat in a meadow of dew-kissed mountain wild flowers? That's how delicious Heather smells), I just knew better.

I mean, at this point, so do you. But we're going to anyway ...

I am centimeters from her face. Her smile slips away. She is straight faced. Her eyes are dark. And it happens. We kiss slowly, patiently. Her lips are soft. It is gentle, and sustained, and sweet ...

Heather had a train to catch in the morning. The three of us walked to the subway. I was a little shell-shocked -- had I just gotten myself into a long-distance relationship, again!?! -- but I kept right on smiling. I hugged Sarah, who passed through the turnstile and left Heath and I alone.

Heather looked up at me with an expression that I've seen dozens of times since: her eyebrows lift, her forehead furrows, and her lips pucker. She is vulnerable. And for me, that's just a little bit scary.

Tomorrow: The Meltdown