Unraveling

Lost as we are in our passion, we both hear it—the doorbell and then a series of hard knocks, followed by more ringing. "Somebody sounds desperate," she says.

I slip on my PJ bottoms, flick on the hall light and pad across the living room rug to the door. "Who is it?"

"Keith. Is Petra still awake?"

Oh shit! "Um, I'm not sure. Why?"

"I want her to come home, that's why."

"Wait there while I check."

I run back to the bedroom and deliver the news. "Tell him I'm asleep," she says.

"Okay, that might work."

I run back into the living room. "Look man, I checked the guest room. She's out like a light."

"Then wake her up."

"What?!"

"Wake her up. It's only ten and I want her home."

"Keith, I can't just—"

"Wake her up, I said. Lemme in, I'll do it."

I tell him to wait outside, then return to the bedroom. "Look, Petra, it doesn't appear as if he's going away without you. Maybe you should—"

"Oh, so now he wants me back, does he? Well, I'm not ready to go back." She punches one of the pillows, begins to cry. "I was looking forward to cuddling with you, falling asleep in your arms. Damn it, Doug, tell him to go away. Tell him you woke me up and that I refuse to go."

While we argue back and forth, Keith is obviously getting mad and impatient. The doorbell is going along with his fist banging against the wood. If I don't settle this soon, I'll have the neighbors on my butt.

Back in the living room, I tell Keith that she refuses to leave. "Let her sleep on it. She'll feel different in the morning, I'm sure."

"Let her tell me that. You shouldn't be our go-between. Come on, man, lemme in."

Now losing patience myself, I exhale hard. Just what I need, caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. "Keith, you can't just drag her out against her will. Be reasonable, man."

"Open this fucking door, dude, or I'll fucking kick it open."

"And if you don't fucking leave, I'll call the fucking cops."

Just then, Petra, dressed in her nightgown, comes storming into the living room. "You woke me up, Keith," she yells, her tone angry and scolding. "Not appreciated, not appreciated at all."

"Sorry about that," Keith says, his voice suddenly soft and contrite. "But now that you're up, I want you to come home."

"Why, Keith? We agreed to give each other space for the night."

Moments of silence pass. It's so quiet that I can hear his labored breathing through the door. Then he says, "Because I miss you. Okay, I miss you. Now please let me in."

She looks at me, rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She then nods, giving me the okay. Before Keith enters, she retreats to the bedroom to dress.

Keith wears jeans, lace-less casual shoes and a heavy blue ski jacket over a T-shirt. He's slicked his hair back, dispensing with his usual part. "Petra must have been unusually tired," he says. "She's normally up to watch the news at eleven."

I shrug. "Well, I wouldn't know about that. I was in bed reading when you showed up."

I ask him to take a seat, then head for the bedroom. Petra is stepping into her gray wool slacks, looking as if she wants to hit someone. In subdued voice, she spits out, "We never even got to finish, damn it!"

"Maybe this time you can work out your differences," I aver, trying to calm her down. "It might be worth a shot."

She shakes her head. "No, we're pretty much done, finished. What you see is a death rattle." She buttons her waistband, slips on her sweater and grabs her coat. Then she approaches me. "But I can see some kind of future for US. Can you?"

"You know it. Of course, there's this unfinished business ahead of you."

We embrace before returning to the living room. When Keith attempts to throw his arm around her, she backs off. "I've agreed to come home with you," she barks, "not get close to you."

She looks so sad, her blue eyes gazing at me, as if pleading with me to intervene. I feel badly for Keith also, seeing the color drain from his wounded face, trying to make right what can't be made right.

Keith opens the door. He says, "Sorry about the inconvenience, buddy. And sorry also that I got so obnoxious."

Arms crossed against my bare chest, I say, "Forget it. Good luck with things."

Gazing out the sliding glass doors, I watch them trudge across the well-lit parking lot to their car. Petra keeps a few paces behind. She glances back, sees me watching, then smiles and waves. I watch them drive off, heady with anticipation. By next year's Super Bowl, perhaps sooner, we could once again be making love in my bedroom—minus, I hope, the rude intrusions of an ex-husband.