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to show off with a line of poetry from time to time.
    There was only one paper to go when I heard C.K.’s knock. I took that as a sign that we were almost in sync—emphasis on the “almost.”
    We have developed a discreet, efficient system. He knocks, then uses his key. If I am otherwise occupied—so far a hypothetical situation, since I have chosen not to be since meeting him—I use the chain lock as well, and he retreats into the night. This is rather ornate, but it accommodates my independence and his unpredictable working hours.
    Before he finished knocking, I opened the door and felt the happy rush the sight of him inevitably produced. C.K. Mackenzie is a fine specimen of manhood, but not tritely Hollywood or Madison Avenue handsome. I am dangerously overfond of his salt-and-pepper curly hair, light blue eyes, slouch, drawl and all the ephemera that make up his style.
    Actually, I am overfond of him, period. At least, I think so. He’s never around long enough to be sure. Certainly we are not career compatible. I don’t know if it goes deeper than that, because his job interrupts, disrupts, dictates and generally keeps us at arm’s length, so who knows which part is Mackenzie and which is The Detective?
    Mackenzie says that I have artificially separated the two, and that, not his job, is my problem. He claims that the man and the job are one and the same, and I have some kind of learning disability.
    It isn’t as if I’m pushing for an ultimate commitment. I’d panic if a major life decision loomed. But lately I feel as if I’m part of a movie, stuck in a freeze frame. I’d prefer a hint as to what’s going to happen. Even a promise that something, anything, eventually, will.
    This year, Sasha, who never worries about the longevity of love but insists it be painted in primary colors while it’s around, gave me an early gift, a photo of a man and woman completely out of focus and dimly lit. She titled it, “C.K. and Mandy, Wherever at Last.”
    “Feels so fine to be here,” he said after the initial kissing and hugging. He meant it, because his accent deepens under the press of emotion, and he was almost unintelligible, mushing his way through “fahn” and “heah” in a soft slur. He retrieved a beer from the refrigerator and hunkered down near me.
    “One more paper,” I said.
    “No problem,” he murmured, but all the while, his hand greeted my anatomy in ways that did not facilitate concentration.
    “Be amused.” I passed him Clemmy’s paper.
    He read, chuckled and sighed with exasperation and then, having exhausted the nuances of Clemmy Tomkins’ world view, resumed distracting me.
    “Two seconds,” I said. “If you’re bored, please decipher that damned answering machine for me.” Then I remembered Laura’s paper. “Wait, read something instead, would you? I want to know what you think.”
    He settled in again, long legs crossed as he studied her paper. One of the many traits I admire about Mackenzie is his ability—very rare, very sexy—to give the subject at hand his full attention. “Showed me her stuff before, haven’t you?” he said after checking her name.
    “This feels different.”
    I read an airball essay on “Thanatopsis,” frequently glancing at Mackenzie, monitoring his reaction. I had never before realized how poker-faced he could be. Finally, my eyes rested on Laura’s last paragraph, waiting for him to join me there. “Nothing has changed since then,” she’d written. “Nobody cares about anything except his own life and concerns. Icarus, unnoticed, still dies every day.”
    Mackenzie looked up. “Want a fire?” he asked. “You’re shiverin’.”
    “What do you make of it?” I asked.
    “Must be hard for her to be in the same class as that Clemmy,” he said. “I’m impressed, is what.”
    I waited for more, but Mackenzie was eyeing the answering machine, as if revving his motors to begin the trek across the living room.
    “It’s not her