“I guess you could say so,” she says, the sarcasm in her voice seemingly dipped in syrup. “My ex-husband here survived being lured into a dark building and viciously attacked three nights ago. Then again, if he’d actually died, I’d probably be drunk on champagne right now, dancing topless on a bar in Cancun.”

The prim and proper host forces an awkward smile, takes a pace back, like he’s afraid of being touched with whatever madness might be infecting my ex-wife.

“Bon,” he says, pursing his lips. “Why don’t I send over the sommelier to take you through our wine list?”

Once the poor man is out of earshot, I say, “Jeez, Mar, you’re terrible, you know that?”

She smiles. “You still figuring that out?”

“Not me,” I say. “But hey, I’m glad you can find humor in my misery.”

“Your misery?” she says, her smile wavering, her voice rising. “Who stayed by your bed all night in the ER? Who cooked you all your meals? Wrapped your bandages in food-grade plastic so you could take a shower? Did all the ingredient prep and handled four full shifts at the truck by herself? All because you had to play hero.”

There’s a burning feeling in my guts as her voice rises with each sentence, her anger growing, her disappointment in me strengthening, all winding up to the same conclusion reached years ago: we aren’t made to be husband and wife.

“I wasn’t playing,” I say. “For fourteen years I’ve been a cop. It’s in my blood. It always will be. And when I see someone in trouble, I’m going to respond.”

“Oh, please,” she says. “Don’t gimme that I’ll-always-be-a-hero crap. Look what the department did for you. Why should you risk your life anymore? Call 911 next time, okay?”

I tap out two Tylenol onto the white tablecloth, then down them with a slug of sparkling spring water. Marlene has a point, but I’m not going to get into this with her, not now. Too many old battles and old arguments should stay good and buried.

So instead I say, “You look really pretty tonight. I haven’t seen you out of your kitchen garb in so long. If I didn’t know you, I might actually find you attractive.”

Marlene’s mood lightens up and her smile returns. But it’s true. She’s tamed her normally frizzy curls into a loose, wavy up-do. She’s painted her face with care, coating her eyelids with a dramatic shade of green. And she’s wearing a tasteful LBD—little black dress—that shows off her figure.

Which is appropriate, since we’re in LBD.