My editor came into my cubicle, all six foot plus of him, and said, "Dude, I can always count on you to be playing something from The Pussycat Dolls."
I cracked a grin. "Always."
"What is it about them, anyway?"
"Dude, like you have to ask?" I started to launch into a detailed explanation.
But he made a stop gesture. "Dude, forget it, I'm just razzing with you."
"Okay, so, what's up?"
"Let me ask you a serious question."
"Okay."
"Of all the Pussycat Dolls, which one would you most want to photograph?"
That was easy. "Nicole Scherzinger, of course."
"Of course. Think you can write a story, too?"
I said, "This is a tough assignment you're talking about. But I'd do my best."
My editor cracked a grin. "Good. Because we're doing a cover story on her. And you, my friend, are the lucky man who gets the job."
"Writing the story or the photography?"
"Both, my friend."
"You've got to be kidding."
"Nope. Better check your email. I believe Nicole's publicist will be sending you an email to confirm date and time, if she hasn't already."
=============
For about the millionth time, I pinched myself under the table.
The radiant former -- some would say always -- lead singer of The Pussycat Dolls, Nicole Scherzinger herself, sat across from me at our table, looking brunette and beautiful.
She was wearing a white sleeveless turtleneck sweater dress, and matching white patent leather knee high boots, both of which served to set off her skin tone. Her hair was worn down, shone under the lights, and spilled down her back in a cascade of beautiful brunette curls.
This was about the time that I would wake up from this dream.
But Nicole was no dream.
And I was still here. I myself wore as formal an outfit as I had -- black slacks, big white sneakers, and a white button down shirt, worn out.
Nicole coughed. I forced myself back to the here and now.
I said, "Sorry, you were saying something?"
Nicole smiled. Her brown eyes sparkled with humor. "Yes. I was asking, how long have you been a journalist?"
"Oh! A long time now, about 15 years."
"Wow, that is a long time. You must love your job."
I shrugged. "It has its moments."
Nicole laughed. "Like right now?"
I nodded. "Like right now. You'll have to forgive me, I'm having a serious attack of butterflies here."
"Don't worry, I understand. Are you a fan of The Pussycat Dolls?"
I grinned. "If being able to remember most of the lyrics from your hit singles means I'm a fan, then yeah, I'm a huge fan."
Nicole laughed out loud. "Well, we haven't even done the interview yet. I'm sure you must have lots of questions."
I nodded at that. "Yeah. You could say that."
"Ask away. We have all night long."
"Yeah. All night long."
A couple hours later, we were leaving the restaurant, both of us a little tipsy. My PDA was almost full. I'd asked Nicole all the questions I'd wanted, and she was all too willing to answer.
Nicole was leaning on me, her arm through mine. "Oh god, John, I don't know if that was an interview or a date!"
I chuckled. "I have to admit, that was a pretty fun interview."
Nicole nearly tripped and fell on her four inch stiletto heels. Fortunately I was holding on to her. "Oh god, I am too drunk to drive, honey." She belched drunkenly. "Hell, I'm too drunk to walk. What about you?"
I burped, as well. It tasted of the wine coolers I'd had one too many of. "Yeah, I'm a little toasted, too."
"What are we going to do?"
"Oh, there's a cab. Come on." I just barely managed to get Nicole in the back seat of the cab, climb in with her, and close the door. I gave the cabbie my address.
As he pulled out into traffic, the cabbie said, "Hey, buddy."
"What?"
"If she pukes on the upholstery, your fare's going way up."
"Just get me home, dude."
As the cab pulled out into traffic, Nicole said, "You're going to get in trouble."
I shrugged. "Nah. My photo studio is at home."
===================
The next morning, I woke up, somewhat stiff from having slept on the damn couch, and with a killer headache from having one too many wine coolers, to find a note on my coffee table.
I couldn't remember very much about last night. I do remember having a lot of fun interviewing Nicole last night. I just barely remember taking off her boots, so she wouldn't trip and kill herself, helping her get upstairs, taking her over to the bathroom sink to throw up, after which I put her in my bed. Then she passed out.
No sex was had between us. Unfortunately. Shit.
Blearily rubbing my eyes, I picked up the note.
"John, Thank you for the wonderful evening last night. I also thank you for keeping to your honor system, at least I assume you did, since I woke up alone and still wearing my clothes. I didn't want to leave you without at least leaving you a note. I'll be getting back to you about the photo shoot. Love, Nicole."
I said, to nobody in particular, "Well, shit."
===============
A couple weeks later, I was in my cubicle at work, doing boring as hell busywork, which wasn't to say that it didn't need to be done, only that it was being done because I had nothing else better to do.
And then, my phone rang. "John Libby."
"Hello, John."