E Is for Evidence

clever to be caught unawares by an early-morning thug. Standing on my doorstep was my second ex-husband, Daniel Wade.
    "Shit," I murmured. Briefly, I leaned my head against the door and then peeked again. All I could see in trun-cated form was his face in profile, blond hair curling around his head like an aura. Daniel Wade is quite possibly the most beautiful man I've ever seen-a bad sign. Beauti-ful men are usually either gay or impossibly narcissistic. (Sorry for the generalization, folks, but it's the truth.) I like a good face or an interesting face or a face with character, but not this sculpted perfection of his… the straight, well-proportioned nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw-line, sturdy chin. His hair was sun-bleached, his eyes a remarkable shade of blue, offset by dark lashes. His teeth were straight and very white, his smile slightly crooked. Get the picture, troops?
    I opened the door. "Yes?"
    "Hi."
    "Hello." I gave him a rude stare, hoping he'd disap-pear. He's tall and slim and he can eat anything without gaining weight. He stood there in faded jeans and a dark-red sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up. His skin had a golden sheen, tanned and windburned, so his cheeks glowed darkly. Just another boring California golden boy. The hair on his arms was bleached nearly white. His hands were tucked in his pockets, which was just as well. He's a jazz pianist with long, bony fingers. I fell in love with his hands first and then worked my way up.
    "I've been in Florida." Good voice, too… just in case his other virtues fail to excite. Reedy and low. He sings like an angel, plays six instruments.
    "What brought you back?"
    "I don't know. Homesick, I guess. A friend of mine was heading this way so I tagged a ride. Did I wake you up?"
    "No, I often walk around looking like this."
    A slight smile here, perfectly timed. His manner seemed hesitant, which was unusual for him. He was searching the sight of me, looking (perhaps) for some evi-dence of the girl I used to be.
    "I like the haircut," he said.
    "Gee, this is fun. I like yours, too."
    "I guess I caught you at a bad time. I'm sorry about that."
    "Uh, Daniel, could we skip to the punch line here? I'm operating on an hour's sleep and I feel like shit."
    It was clear he'd rehearsed this whole conversation, but in his mind my response was tender instead of down-right rude. "I wanted you to know I'm clean," he said. "I have been for a year. No drugs. No drinking. It hasn't been easy, but I really have straightened up."
    "Super. I'm thrilled. It's about bloody time."
    "Could you knock off the sarcasm?"
    "That's my natural way of speaking ever since you left. It's real popular with men."
    He rocked slightly on his heels, looking off across the yard. "I guess people don't get a second chance with you."
    I didn't bother to respond to that.
    He tried a new tack. "Look. I have a therapist named Elise. She was the one who suggested I clean up the unfin-ished business in my life. She thought maybe you might benefit, too."
    "Oh, hey. That's swell. Give me her address and I'll write her a bread-and-butter note."
    "Can I come in?"
    "Jesus Christ, Daniel, of course not! Don't you get it yet? I haven't seen you for eight years and it turns out that's not long enough."
    "How can you be so hostile after all this time? I don't feel bad about you."
    "Why would you feel bad? I didn't do anything to you!"
    A look of injury crossed his face and his bewilderment seemed genuine. There's a certain class of people who will do you in and then remain completely mystified by the depth of your pain. He shifted his weight. This apparently wasn't going as he thought it would. He reached up to pick at a wood splinter in the door frame above my head. "I didn't think you'd be bitter. That's not like you, Kinsey. We had some good years."
    "Year. Singular. Eleven months and six days, to be exact. You might move your hand before I slam the door on it."
    He moved his hand.
    I slammed the door and went back to bed.
    After a few minutes, I heard the gate squeak.
    I thrashed about for a while, but it was clear I wouldn't get back to sleep. I got up and brushed my teeth, show-ered, shampooed my hair, shaved my legs. I used to have fantasies about his showing up. I used to invent long mono-logues in which I poured out my sorrow and my rage. Now I was wishing he'd come back again so I could do a better job of it. Being rejected is burdensome that way. You're left with emotional baggage you unload on