I've got to let him in.He moves quietly, self-assured, through the doorway, looking around theway cops do, scanning corners, noting doors and windows,...taking stock.Nods, like someone back at grandma's place, first time in years,remembering the old, familiar things: Oh that, I'd always liked that.And that, yes I remember. Yes, I do.It's like he's prowling in my home. Like it is his. I'm tremblingagain. No siren. No blue light. But I'm trembling, watching him --watching him stripping my refuge. You couldn't help smiling at him, talking too loudly about having trouble with your keys and thinking you were too drunk to drive. It was a calculated effort aided by a little wine for bravery."Do you need a ride home?" he asked, strolling from his car over to yours.An innocent shrug. "I don't usually drink wine."He smiled. "I know."You smiled back. "Yes, please."He knew from the way you were looking at him. He started to ask directions to your place but was silenced when you started rubbing. More

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