"I know. I love you too."She shook her head. "No, not--I think we're confusing what we really mean." Yes, you love me in a motherly sort of way. Okay....So I can accept that with our age difference. But don't you have any other feelings for me too, like I have for you? I mean, I love you, not as a master to a maid, not as a student to his teacher, or a patient for his nurse. I love you as a man to a woman. A beautiful and desirable woman."She was crying now. I held her in my arms and she seemed. So I tried to stop bugging her.We rolled into fall, a balmy, Californian fall. School resumed. I focused on movie projects and, pleasing me immensely, the media lost interest in us. Our drive was finally empty. We could grocery shop without being hassled.When my birthday approached, I stopped waiting. I suggested to Amelia that all I wanted was for her to sing me a song. I was Machiavellian in my behavior, too. I complained about a lack of inspiration on my movie script. I complained about. More

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