You said, I'll be your Ray Gun.

I replied, Oh?

I sat very still and tried to quiet the flutter in my gut and the flutter in my chest and the most likely embarrassing flutter in my cheeks that would make me very red. Very red, indeed. I wished very much for something cold, like some  lemonade, perhaps, or some cold glass of carbonated beverage, to cool me while you rattled off names of bands that meant very little to me except for the entrancing way they unfurled out of your mouth. Spiritualized. Spoon. Chemical Brothers. Massive Attack. Morcheeba. Pizzicato Five. Sugar.

Sure, you said. I'll be your Ray Gun.

I took a deep breath. OK, I said. OK.