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* Ruthie edited expertly.

* I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, he/she should not have been here in the first place.

She called out his name, involuntarily, and he turned and stared. She saw it come to him and she smiled, involuntarily. They took possession of an island in the centre of the pavement, and people flowed around them. "You've become a redhead," he said, his eyes roaming over her face.

She detected the hint of accusation. She'd changed the colour of her hair without getting his approval. The divorce was ten years ago, but some things between them had not changed.

She pushed away the urge to snap back, to bite down on the bitter taste of recriminations. "You have a touch of grey," she said. "I like it."

His blue eyes lost their wariness, and crinkled at the edges as he smiled. "It's great to see you." He stepped back for a theatrical view of her. "You look fantastic."

She blushed, absurdly pleased, and for a moment she thought her knees would buckle. Ridiculous, she chided herself. For God's sake, girl, get a grip on yourself.

"You've time for coffee," he said, and he wasn't asking. He took her elbow in the way he always had and steered her decisively into a sidewalk cafe' just a few steps away.

She lived in this city now, remarried, and he knew that. He was visiting on business. He'd not married again, not changed his job, not even changed address. They chatted cautiously, catching up without putting foot into the demilitarized but still suspiciously guarded zone of past regrets. She remained vaguely flustered, tense, on edge.

"Red suits you," he said, breaking into a pause in the conversation. "I cannot believe how stunning you look."

She resisted an urge to fan herself with the menu. She was damp, humid. Damn the man, she acknowledged savagely to herself. She was actually wet.

He knew. She could tell it from his eyes. When you were married to a man for four years, you knew how to read his eyes. Even after a ten-year break, you didn't forget.

"I have a hotel room just one block away," he said. His voice had dropped down, low. It had always been a trigger for them both.

"I can't," she said, wildly excited.

He stood up, threw a banknote on the table, came around and held her chair insistently. She could think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn't, but she got up and he took her elbow again.

In the hotel room he sprawled on the bed indolently, fully dressed, and told her to take off her clothes. It was exactly what she wanted to do.

He entered her with an assurance that only comes between partners who've done it so often it was silly to put a number to it. She reached around and twiddled her fingers in that furry patch of hair he had in the small of his back. She hadn't seen it but she knew it was there; just went to it automatically, like she always had.

Fait accompli. She rode through the progressions to a wonderfully satisfying orgasm, the best she'd had in . . .

Hastily, she pushed the thought away and gripped him tightly as he shuddered against her.

Bastard. He was so good - good with her, but good with other women too, as she knew to her cost.

They lay side by side, reflecting on failed marriages without speaking. Soon she rolled out of the bed and began dressing.

"You're still the best," he said.

Maybe it was true, maybe not. Didn't matter any more. She'd remembered now why they weren't still together, and she didn't stop dressing to comment.

She left without saying a word, leaving him, once more, but this time without regret. Outside on the street the sun was shining on a cloudless mid-afternoon. She felt young, healthy, alive. She felt like she'd been fucked damn good, and that was a good feeling to have, however temporarily.

There remained only the matter of guilt. How did adultery with a former husband rate on the scale of one to ten?

As she walked up the pavement, smiling, it felt like a one. Later, she knew, it would fester to a 9.9.

She'd always be in love with him. He was several chapters in the story of her life. But now he had been concluded, and she knew she'd be better for it.

ENDS

The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com