Christian pushed himself back from his keyboard. The computer screen stared blankly back at him. No words. None. He had tried to clear his mind and just write what he thought, but what went across the screen was:

satinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesatinesati nesatinesatinesatine . . .

He stood up. Maybe some fresh air would help him to write the first act that Zibler had just called to tell him he had to write for rehearsal the following morning. It was 12:02 in the morning, and he hadn't written a single word.

The air outside felt harsh and chill, strange for a mid-June night in New York. The lights from Times Square were visible even from six blocks away, which happened to be where Christian was living. The Empire State Building's spire looked like a lighted beacon in the distance. This was nothing like he thought New York would be. He lit a cigarette from his pocket and took a long drag. He had tried to quit, but he looked on it as the only thing that made him tough enough to be a scriptwriter. Now, he needed that nicotine more than ever. His palms began to sweat just at the thought of her. Elton John's "Your Song" was drifting up to him from a radio somewhere. He sang along quietly.

"How wonderful life is now you're in the world." He took another drag. This was stupid. She's a showgirl and a hooker. She was just acting. She's not in love with you. He told himself these things over and over. Then, the look on her face while he was singing came into his mind. That was no act. That was pure, simple adoration. She had fallen for him in some way, somehow. He had to go see her again.

He flicked his cigarette off the balcony, put on a coat and jogged out to his car in the parking lot. He jumped in, turned on the radio, and sped down the nearly abandoned streets of NYC. "All You Need is Love" was blaring on his car radio, and he yelled along as he took a joyride in his pajamas.

Finally, he ended up back at the Club Rouge. Christian saw her just where she had been when he left her. He was debating how to get to her. His eyes fell upon a nice-looking drainpipe that ran alongside her apartment. Pull a Romeo? he asked himself. Definitely.

So, still in pajamas and house shoes, Christian Londen found himself climbing seven stories of brick building with a flashing neon windmill on the side by a drainpipe, trying to reach a hooker in an apartment with a balcony shaped like an elephant. Talk about bizarre. But, hey, this was New York!

Hey, he thought, glancing down, I'm Spiderman! He laughed at himself, nearly falling off and meeting his death on the pavement. He checked the balcony. She had gone inside. Great. He kept climbing, however, because it was either get to an empty balcony or plunge to a painful end on the pavement below. Empty balcony, here I come, he thought.

Just as he reached the elephant (not without any kind of physical struggle at all, of course) Satine decided to come out. She screamed, nearly knocking Christian from his perch - hanging precariously off the edge of the elephant's ear.

"No, no, please wait," he said, trying to grab a firmer grip on the - dear, Lord, what is this thing made out of? - ear. Satine cautiously poked her head out from inside.

"Christian?" she asked. He nodded. She sighed. "For a minute I thought you were some creep trying to get a free night. Why didn't you just use the stairs? Oh, well, never mind, you're in your pajamas. Come in for some tea or something." She turned and went back inside. Christian fell a little further down.

"Help, please?" he choked, nearly losing his grip again. Satine dashed back out of the room. "Oh!" she exclaimed, grabbing Christian by the elbows and pulling him over the wall. He landed with a thud on the ground, and Satine collapsed into a chair.

"Why were you climbing the balcony?" she asked, bringing him a cup of tea. Christian lowered his head and rubbed his bruises. He was avoiding her eyes.

"What?" She laughed. Christian pushed himself up. He winced.

"Oh, don't, here, let me help." She pulled him up off the ground and helped him limp into a chaise lounge in a corner of the balcony. After he had sipped his tea and relaxed for a moment, she asked him again. "Why were you climbing my balcony in the middle of the night, Christian?"

Christian looked at his feet. "Promise you won't laugh?" he asked. She nodded. "All right, here goes. I was wondering about the whole thing earlier this evening, with the song, and when . . . when you said you loved me. And I was just wondering if it was an act, so, bright guy that I am, I decided to . . . well, pull a Romeo Montague and climb onto your balcony." He avoided her eyes. But, to his surprise, Satine smiled.

"You wanted to know if it was an act?" she asked.

"Well, yes."

"Of course."

"Oh, it just felt so real."

She smiled more brightly and filled his teacup again. "Christian, I'm an actress. It's my job to pretend. I'm sorry."

Christian looked up at her. "I'm not."

Satine poured herself another cup of tea, and as the breeze blew cooler and the night wore on, she wrapped her shawl around herself, and they talked into the night. They talked about theater and acting, singing and dancing, movies and money, and anything else they could think of. They laughed and smiled, cried and comforted, and they never stopped talking. Not once.

When Satine stood to make some more tea at about five in the morning, Christian followed her inside. She plugged in the electric kettle and said, "So, have you ever been in love?" It was the question they had both been avoiding all night. Christian sat down carefully in a chair and answered, "Once, I think. It was at home in Albany. I was working as a journalist for the local paper, and she was a copy editor. We went out a couple of times, but just as I thought it was getting serious, she elopes with this guy from Classifieds. I never really knew what I felt about her."

Satine unplugged the kettle and put a few tea bags inside. As she dipped them in and out, Christian asked, "What about you?"

She sighed. "I'm a performer," she said, "I can't fall in love."

Christian sat up with a start. "Can't fall in love? Well, that's terrible!"

"No, being on the streets, that's terrible."

"No! Don't you ever want to just be held by someone who cares about you? Just sit in the same room as someone who thinks you're the world and you think the same of them? Have you ever wanted to kiss someone on the cheek and fell shivers down your spine? Or hold someone's hand under a table at dinner because you don't want to make the other people at the table feel uncomfortable? Don't you want all that?"

Satine cast her eyes down. Why was she shivering? It was warm in her apartment, so why did she keep getting shivers down her spine? Suddenly, she felt this overwhelming urge to just throw her arms around Christian's neck and have him hold her forever. But, instead, she said, "Who ever said I didn't want that?"

Christian looked at her curiously. They looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like eternity, until Satine leaned down slowly, closed her eyes, and they kissed. Christian put his arms around her and held her close. They finally broke apart, and Christian asked, "So what does this mean?" Satine whispered, "I don't know." She kissed him again, this time pulling him onto his feet and putting her arms around his neck. When they broke away again, she whispered, "Wow."

"What?" Christian asked.

"I think . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm falling in love with you."

This time when they kissed, it was long and lasting, so that they both knew that they loved each other, and they both knew they would never love another.