Even here, even tonight, in this nostalgic bedroom, either of us could be a policeman…kicking down the closed doors of alibis, of our mistakes, of our adventures. Each of us could investigate the case back to its origin—the motive and opportunity for earlier love. Do we not know the score? Criminals return to the scene if only in their minds. We let them talk and flip them in their lies. We break them down.
Either of us could play good cop, coffee-giver, provider of lights; either could be the bad lieutenant…hard carrier of truth, the whispering questioner…and anyone could be the suspect—handcuffed face-down in this bed, begging for just one second, pleading now for the chance to deal names like cards.
They become a wall… my fears, everything, nothing at all. A phantom somewhere beyond the peeling away, some empty space beneath the final page, beneath the hollow of bones that holds that initial mystery.
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