I had never seen anyone quite so handsome as the pallid, ginger-haired man with whom I spent every Friday night.
I loved the way his mouth moved. The way his forehead furrowed. I was mesmerized by his dancing eyebrows and boyish voice.
I desperately wanted to be with him. There were times when I wanted to be him.
It was 1997. I was 16. And I was in love with Conan O’Brien.