He was gone again, chasing his dream. Another four months on the road playing in smoky bars and clubs in front of nameless faces. Singing his bluesy-country mix in that deep whiskey siren voice that always called me back no matter how long the separation. I grudgingly rolled out of bed and reached for his worn flannel shirt, deeply inhaling and savoring the lingering scent of his cologne and sweat. I closed my eyes and imagined him on stage, playing his guitar as sweetly and gently as if it was my body, singing words written for me but shared with strangers, and I felt a pang of jealousy. I wondered if there would ever be a day when I had him all to myself. If he would ever stop searching for the adoring, screaming masses and be content with just one hopelessly devoted fan.