“I want you to write about me,” T shouts over the cloying ’80s club pop churning through the bar’s speakers.

“What?” I nearly choke on vodka tonic in surprise.

“On your blog. I want you to write about me.”

“That’s not something people usually request, I have to admit.”

He throws me his trademark wolfish smile. As Boyfriend’s best friend, he sweats out charisma and raw energy like salt. I can’t think of a single woman I know who hasn’t wanted to sleep with him.

“Well, you know, I may never get famous. Here’s my chance at being immortalized.” He downs the last of his whiskey and motions for a refill. I’m dumbfounded, first by the notion that T would ever doubt his own notoriety, second that anyone would think that my blogging about them was akin to immortality.

“T, you already are famous.” Or at least, he inhabits the space of a celebrity for all who know him. Wealthy, talented, well-traveled, subject to the brooding fits of the creative and troubled, he’s like the high school friend who became a movie star but wants everyone to act like nothing has changed. “You should have heard Boyfriend talk about you when we first started dating. It was like you were the next Basquiat.”

“Eh, guys like to talk up their friends to their new girlfriends. Makes them sound cool.” We both laugh and glance at Boyfriend, chatting at the bar with the rest of our group. He sees us talking and smiles; it’s important to him that we get along.

“What were you hoping I’d say if I wrote about you?”

“I don’t know, I just want to see how you’d describe me.” He looks at the floor and plays with his drink in a highly uncharacteristic moment of nervousness. “I want to know what you really think of me.”

I smile to hide my shock; I’ve spent hours worrying about T’s opinion of me, agonizing over what to say next to impress him with my wit and agility, tiptoeing around topics on which we disagree to avoid arguments. Not once has it occurred to me that he might be harboring an equal fear. The concept of this dominating figure who lives exclusively in the present and infuses vitality into every moment fearing my opinion of him seems absurd. As I sip my drink and let his words marinate, I start to realize my own power.

“T, you’re too big to encapsulate in a blog post. All the superficial characteristics - lives in a huge apartment, dates models, spends weekend in Miami, rides a motorcycle - that stuff paints an incomplete picture. I don’t even know where I’d start.”

“Just do it.” He grins. “And don’t say anything too incriminating.”