I am reading every line in her face. I am

I am reading every line in her face. I am driving every role. I am simply being me.

I know her better than she knows herself. Despite her illusion of control, she has none. Every move made, I see. I see her reactions, her thoughts, the doubts that slowly creep in

when she least expects them. I know every event on her schedule, hour by hour. I know when she sleeps, what she eats. Some call me a stalker. I prefer the term "committed."

She began sensing my "commitment" quite quickly...and nervously. A quick trip to the grocery & I was all like "HI!" At the gym: "Well, helloo again!" In her closet: "SURPRISE!"

Her lingerie was hung in a drape across a the chaise across from her boudoir. I slipped the satin pnties into my coat pocket hoping she would miss the $200.00 couturier piece. Unf

ettered, she bounced back into the room where I waited. She searched my face , and I wondered whether she knew I'd snatched something of hers. "Have you seen my

accordion? I need it for my Polka at the Stingy Swede Supper Club." I feigned innocence as she thumped her lederhosen rump on the bed. I harmonic wheeze came from the box spring.

I got up, looked at her sadly before reaching between the mattress and box spring, retrieving the--her!--concertina. Her look of shame and betrayal said all I needed to know.

"Yes, it was me playing the concertina," she admitted through tears, "I couldn't help it. It's a habit. I need.... help..." So I dialed the Concertina Helpline, who put us in touch

with Joe “Weddings & Bar Mitzvahs” Pulaski, a psychologist and accordion player. With Joe’s help, she was no longer ashamed of her obsession—and she made a few bucks at gigs, too.