High noon at the OK Corral. Except it’s the dead of night and neither of us is armed. He doesn’t even look particularly threatening, unlike earlier tonight when he was channeling Dirty Harry. He looks old and tired, the lines bracketing his mouth deep as fissures in a rock face. He stops a few feet from me, raising his hand in the universal I-come-in-peace gesture. “We need to talk.” His voice rumbles from his chest. I stare at him as if we were standing eye-to-eye even though he’s a half foot taller. “Let me get this straight. First you threaten me, then have me thrown in jail—which, by the way, totally could’ve been avoided if you’d been straight with me to begin with instead of forcing me to go to extremes—and now here you are on my doorstep. Wanting to talk. At one-freaking-thirty in the morning.” He sighs wearily. “I can explain.” “By all means. This I got to hear.”
