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Bug that's mostly black with a couple of patches here and there. I wonder as I get in what my Asian stranger would think of it, and I feel the blood flow almost instantly to my erection. I take the address out and look at it again. I know it's an apartment building downtown. I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, heading in that direction.
    The ten minute drive gives me time to consider my actions. If any of my co-workers were to find out that I bought a bottle to give to someone I denied earlier, I could lose my job. I could be fined. If someone really wanted to be a prick, I could go to jail. I don't know what I'm expecting that will be worth all those risks, but thinking about his face, it all seems inconsequential. I would suffer that and more to feel his golden lips on mine. Besides, I tell myself, there's almost no chance any of those brain-dead hicks at work will figure out what I'm doing, let alone be able to prove it if they do.
    There it is. For the most part, it's totally nondescript: an old building but not very ornate. It's in the historic district of town, so the owner gave the outside a splash of garish paint to make it stand out next to the Victorian mansions and truly beautiful buildings around it. I grip the steering wheel and turn off the engine. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and steel myself for what I am about to do.
    As ready as I can be, I grab the bottle and get out of my car without locking the door and head for the building. There is an intercom by the door with fifteen buttons and corresponding name tags. I find apartment eleven and look at the name by the button: Song, Ping-Lang. That has to be him. I have no idea what to say after I push that button. Will he even be able to understand me? What if he isn't here? I have no idea if he came home after he left my store.
    My thoughts are interrupted by a couple of college girls that open the door and walk out. They're laughing and walking down the sidewalk as I catch the door before it closes. I go in and head for the third floor. There's an elevator but I take the stairs to give myself some extra time. With each step, my heart beats a little bit faster. If I were a poet and not a liquor store clerk, I might say my pulse quickened. I smile at that. I won't be a liquor store clerk forever. My paintings will start to sell, and then I won't have to put up with the bull crap any longer. Maybe I'll have a beautiful Asian boyfriend to share my artistic success with me.
    By the time I have begun imagining our future together, I reach the door of apartment eleven. There's a peep hole just above the numbers, making me wonder what he'll think when he sees me, if he's home. I raise my hand and knock gently twice. I can hear faint music through the door but nothing else. The minutes stretch. I knock again, slightly harder. It feels like eternity passes in the time I stand there.
    I decide he isn't home after all, and just as I turn to leave, there is the click and drag of a lock being turned. I look quickly back at the door. A warm, unsteady light spills out, and standing in the doorway, silhouetted by candlelight and naked to the waist is Ping-Lang. I try to swallow, but my throat has gone desert dry in a split second.
    He smiles and I hold out the bottle in reply, noticing his bare feet, the toe nails painted a sparkling deep blue. I regain my voice, worried that he might think I'm some kind of psycho, guessing that might be the reason it took him so long to answer the door. Maybe he was deciding if I was safe. I manage a choked hello. He lays his hand on mine and pulls me into the apartment.
    I introduce myself as we move inside. "My name's Ian," I say laying a hand on my chest. He imitates the gesture.
    "My name is Ping-Lang," he says, as though he's rehearsed it many times. "This for me?" he asks.
    I nod, and he gently takes the bottle from my hand as he closes the door. There are what seem like a million candles lit all around the room. He