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Imagine that.

Imagine my guilt, the second-guessing, the bitter rages, and the quiet, endless despair. Imagine feeling you might as well have pulled the trigger on him yourself.

I got out of bed and turned the ringer back on. Ten minutes later Michelle called, and I gave her directions.

Outside my building, I positioned myself in such a way as to see her before she could see me. If some menacing accomplice was with her, I could either slip back into the building unnoticed or slip around the corner down the avenue.

I waited. The mist had dissipated. All was quiet save for the faint swish of tires on wet pavement. I dug in my pocket for a cigarette and matches. There was comfort as always in the little ritual, the dry paper on the lips and the match’s flick and flare.

After a few minutes I saw, far off down the next block, a pair of white shoes and white socks moving. As they came closer their wearer emerged, too. She was alone. I took another calming drag on my cigarette. She was walking fast.

'Peekaboo!' she yelled from across the street. 'I see you!' I stepped out onto the sidewalk. She crossed the street and gave me a quizzical look as she approached. 'You gonna scare people lurkin’ in doorways like that.'

I released a little nervous laugh and held the door for her. As we climbed the stairs, I adjusted the bulge in my pants to make it less conspicuous. It occurred to me that a man might find it convenient to cast doubt on another’s motives precisely in those moments when he couldn’t trust his own.

She dropped her bag and sat on the couch.

'You want anything?' I asked. 'Water? Juice?'

She reached in her bag and fished out a beer in a paper sack. 'I’ll stick with this,' she said.

She took a long swallow. 'Can I have a cigarette?'

I offered one and lit it for her. She blew a plume of smoke into the air, sat back, and crossed her legs. She looked older than she had on the street. I revised my guess upward to early thirties, a little older than me. She smoked avidly, bounced one crossed leg atop the other, and looked around the room.

'You got a lot of books,' she said. 'You read them all?'

'Maybe half,' I said. 'Maybe a little more.'

'You must be pretty smart.'

'I’m not sure reading books makes you smart.'

We smoked one cigarette and then another, until the light in the room turned faintly purple. She noticed a small bag of marijuana on the coffee table. 'You smoke weed?' she asked.

'Now and then,' I said. 'Do you?'

'Not no more. I got to like it too much and smoked it all the time. Made me lazy.'

After a moment she pointed across the room.

'Say, you videotapin’ me?'

Atop one bookshelf was an old Bell & Howell Autoload 8mm movie camera, probably made in the late forties or early fifties. I used it as a bookend.

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