Ha. Ha-ha. No.

I'm going to pretend I'm not sitting in the dark, on couch with Patrick Verona, in his house, while a storm rages on.

That I'm not beginning to feel the temperature drop, and hearing the rain pounding on the roof, as I sit on my hands on a couch next to Patrick Verona.

That I'm not closing my eyes, wishing for the rain to stop, for the lights to come back on, or that this is all just a horribly, horribly, ironic dream, and that I'm not sitting on a couch next to Patrick Verona.

Because that would just be a little too awkward.

Too bad he's looking at me now; I can just see the outline of his features in the dark.

"We should get a flashlight. Or a candle. Or something."

"We should."

"That would be wise." The darkness has somehow made everything ten times more uncomfortable.

"I have a flashlight in my room." He gets up, presumably to get said flashlight, and leaves me sitting on the couch. Of course, after about 12 seconds of silence, I follow him.

His bedroom at the end of the hallway, a plain oak door without any warnings, or signs that foretell toxic waste that might lie inside.

The door swings open, and I have another reason to wish that the power was working.

In the darkness, I can make out a large bed in one corner, unmade, naturally, next to a large window, through which I see a menacing flash of lightening.

He disappears into a closet, and after a couple dangerous-sounding crashes, he emerges with a bright yellow flashlight. He pans the beam around the room one or twice, testing the dim bulb, and giving me a fleeting glimpse at his Lion's Den.

Next to the window is stationed an easel, a loose sketch of a woman's face scratched into the canvass. Across the room there was a large brown suede couch, buried under school books, notebooks and loose paper, covered in rows and rows of tiny chicken scratch. My heart swells as I see the 1994 Gibson Les Paul, possibly the most beautiful instrument ever created, leaning against the couch, surrounded by stacks of novels and sheet music and CD's. I see Led Zeppelin albums and countless Beatles vinyl, and even some more modern stuff mixed in, The Goo Goo dolls, before they got too commercial, and some Our Lady Peace with a splash of Pearl Jam. I smile at the home-made discs, labeled in his scrawling print, with impromptu titles like "Tuesday, 12: 46 PM" and "That Time I was Feeling Pissed at the World" They were his demos.

Even though the Victorian Mansion was a surprise, his corner of the house, tucked in the back, was just what I was expecting.

________________________________________________________________________

It is 5:31.

In a short time, Patrick has started a cozy fire, to keep us warm in the absence of central heating, lit the room with dozens of candles, and procured heavy (faux, he has assured me) fur blankets.

I am curled up into a ball on the couch; he has taken the regal armchair in the corner. We are sipping tea out of classy, cream colored china mugs, and not saying a word to each other.

"To tell me about it." I bite.

His quizzical stare is my answer, to which I reply with a broad wave of my hand to my surroundings. "This." I shrug. "All of it."

His deep voice rumbles in my ears, giving me chills underneath my blanket cocoon. "Where to begin?"