Oh, right, like you’ve never done it.

I don’t mean the stonewall-the-cops-while-the-dead-man’s-wife-is-lathering-herself-in-your-shower thing. I mean the other thing, the important thing. There is much that is easy in this world: downloading porn, stealing cable, Serbian girls, you know what I mean. But of all that is easy in this world, nothing is easier than falling into bed with an old lover.

“Victor, is that you?”

“It’s me all right,” I had said into the phone, the soft, level voice on the other end of the line disturbingly familiar. This was before, weeks before.

“Hi,” said the voice. “How are you?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“You don’t recognize me.”

“Not really.”

“I should be insulted, but it has been a long time. It’s me,” she said. “It’s Julia.”

My heart just then held its breath as it dived into dark, cold waters.

“Hello?” she said. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“It’s me.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have anything to say to me?”

“Let me turn down the television.”

I pulled the phone from my ear and sat there for a moment. There is always one that gnaws at the bones. You think of her when the alcohol floats you into a tidal pool of regret. You dream of her still. In the simplest of moments, waiting for an elevator, mailing a letter, the memory of her slices into your heart as naturally as a breath.

“Okay, I’m back,” I said.

“Are you still mad?”

“That’s a funny question. You get mad when your fiancée flirts with your old pal Jimmy. I think what happened sort of transcends mad, don’t you?”

“Is that why you’re sending me the letters?”

“What letters?”

“Maybe we should get together and talk about it.”