I met Tahmi for dinner last night at Pasqua's. She was parking her car when I arrived, and we walked into the restaurant together, then paused, surveying the tables decorated with red napkins and paper hearts reading RESERVED. Right... it was Valentine's Day. The place was mostly empty, at about 5:30, and the bartender yelled across the room, "Sit anywhere you like!"

We sat in our favorite booth, big enough for four, right next to the entrance. Debbie, our usual waitress, rushed over looking hassled and asked if we were there for drinks only. Dinner, we told her, which hassled her more. "I've got all these reservations," she said, gesturing toward the empty tables, then seeming to sense that she was alienating us, said, "But it's OK, you guys are fine." Tahmi told her we didn't plan to stay too long, and Debbie allowed that people wouldn't start showing up until 7:30 or so. We ordered, and Debbie went away. I asked Tahmi if she thought many people would come to Pasqua's for Valentine's Day. She shrugged. "I came here on a date last Valentine's Day," she answered, "Remember? 'Has Sex With Hookers Guy'?" I did remember. Well, I never actually met him, but the story stuck in my head. It seems that this guy had gone to a massage parlor at some point after his first date with Tahmi, then related the details to her on a subsequent date. He'd gotten a massage, then had sex with the girl, believing that she just happened to really, really like him. He went back a day or two later, only to find that the cops had raided the place and closed it down, a fact that did nothing to diminish his certainty that Massage Girl really, really liked him. Although the story carries a certain poignancy, owing to his apparent total ignorance of the ways of the world, Tahmi and I agreed that she was probably wise to discontinue the relationship at that point.

While we ate dinner, Tahmi went over a list of inappropriate guys she's dated, which she keeps in a little notebook. "Tight Crotchal-Area Pants Guy," "Old Man Skin Guy," and "Looks Like Ex-Boyfriend Guy," they all have their place. When she came to the end of her list, I wanted to hear more, so she mused, "There was this one guy who wrote me a song once..." I was instantly jealous. No one has ever written me a song. "His name was Jonathan, and he played the guitar" she explained, adding, "The song went, in its entirety, 'Go away, please, today.'"

"Was it Jonathan Richman?" I asked. (Jonathan Richman did once make up a song for my benefit, although to be fair, it was not about me. I had called his hotel to talk to someone else, and he answered the phone. In the process of transferring the phone over, he made up a song describing the state of the room and its occupant.)

"No," she answered, "It was this guy I went to high school with. I had a crush on him, and pretty much demanded that he write a song for me. So, he took a piece of paper from his notebook and wrote 'To Tahmi: Go away, please. Today. From Jonathan.'" I argued that the insertion of the word "please" in the middle softened the initial "go away," possibly indicating regret, but she was certain that the final 'today' clinched the immediacy of the request.

Her admission made me suddenly remember a song I'd once coerced someone into writing for me. I was about fifteen, and had a crush on this boy I knew at church camp, named Eric. He had big brown eyes and played guitar, and serenaded us with the soothing sounds of James Taylor and songs about it only taking one spark to get a fire going. All the girls loved him, but he and I were pen pals, so I felt a certain misguided superiority to the others. I hounded him until he wrote me a song comprising, as I had insisted, six choruses and six verses. My hopes of romance fizzled when I heard the song, six long and ill-rhymed verses about how he and I were friends, and it would be a mistake to attempt anything more serious. Some guys say it with flowers, but there's nothing like four chords and an attitude to really spell out how you feel about someone.

A martial version of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" played on the jukebox as 7:00 rolled around. A couple entered the restaurant, and Debbie rushed over to them, flustered, and said, "Don't worry, I have your table. " Then, under her breath to them, "These people promised me they'd be out of here," as she dropped our check on the table and rushed away. There were other open tables, but apparently Debbie had plans for our booth. We took the hint, paid the check and left, having made the transition from welcome guests to "these people."

On the drive home, I thought about the idea of having a song written expressly for me. There are a lot of songs I wouldn't want to have had written about me. "Lyin' Eyes," for example, or the entire Rod Stewart oeuvre.

I had a related conversation with Al one time, shortly after his last CD came out. It features a beautiful song called "Always a Pleasure," which is notable for many reasons but beloved by me because of its tone of reverence toward the subject. It opens:

"Gazing in your eyes, I can see paradise.
I've never been to heaven; I doubt if it's as nice."

Al writes songs that girls love. How could we not? They're so courtly. And part of their beauty, as I attempted to explain to him, is the excellent feeling of angst they inspire, as I resign myself to the idea that as beautiful as the sentiment is, it's deeply unlikely that anyone would ever express it to me directly. I mean, probably Al himself never actually said "I've never been to heaven; I doubt if it's as nice" to a girl.

It's fun to suffer that angst, though. How else can you account for the popularity of Tammy Wynette, of Edith Piaf, of Chris Isaak? We all love to feel that stab in the heart, and so in a sense, we can consider those songs ours. I'm not interested in claiming some condescending consolation prize song like "Lonely People," by America, but you know, I'll throw George Jones on the hi fi and be happier in my melancholy than I ever am in my joy.

Star of the day. . .Stevie Nicks