Six weeks later I had returned to Washington, still clad in my corset, freshly seated at a bar with a shot of whiskey in my hand and a sudden realization that I distinctly did not want to be there. From my post both near and below the front door as it opened, I saw a man I recognized from years past and had the brief benefit of watching him scan the room before his eyes fell onto mine. His face lit up with a warm grin. “You must be the reason I found a god dammed parking space on U Street!” I rose, we shook hands, then sat down together. As a bartender I had served this man off and on for years, but it had been an equally long time since we’d seen each other. The usual query came regarding my corset. I added my descriptions of loss, though not specific as before, for I knew this man was an alcoholic. In the time it took him to throw his first beer he’d begun his own story. He too had lost a relationship only six months before, but his companion had died. As I offered my sincere condolences he pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and produced a photo of a bespectacled, plain-looking girl with mousy hair. I found this odd as I’d remembered him as always somewhat rough in behavior, and accompanying very attractive women. He said they were not in love, and that they had a loose arrangement. Six months ago they had hosted a party at their house which is located in a dangerous neighborhood. While he kept watch for guests at the front door, his companion was apparently drinking too much brandy in the kitchen. She was an epileptic and not supposed to drink alcohol. They went to bed late that night. She was quite tipsy, as was he. When he awoke in the morning she was lying beside him – dead. The second beer was on its way to be finished and I looked at his eyes. They were dry. In the midst of my condolences I asked him what happened then, and he stated he was arrested and charged with second degree murder, but was subsequently released with the case being thrown out of court. I asked where she was from, and he replied, here, Washington. I asked him if he’d contacted her family and he said no. I challenged him why not and he replied that his lawyer instructed him not to do so. Again I asked him why, as it seemed inconceivable to me not do such a thing and he replied: “New evidence”. He ordered a third beer. “She was blue, there were some bruises, but she was drunk. She had a seizure in bed, she asphyxiated. You always turn blue when you die that way”. I was silent. I watched his eyes – still dry. He then went on about another girl he dated briefly after that, and how good the sex was between them, and the conversation grew to include still another girl he was dating – and then the comparison between them. Their respective smells and how “one stinks and the other you couldn’t even tell you were down on her”. He burped, excused himself to pee. I paid for my drink. On returning he said that we should get together again sometime to share old stories and asked for my card which I gratefully did not have, so he proferred his – for photography – with a supine nude on it’s face. I walked to the street away from that encounter, chilled with the knowledge I had heard a tale of murder. Some weeks later I ate dinner with a woman friend of long-standing who happened at the time to be the Assistant Chief Prosecuting Attorney for Washinton’s homicides. I recounted the story and she told me she was aware of the case. She asked me point-blank if I thought he did it. “I know he did” I said and she agreed. There was not enough evidence to bring another indictment of the case. On the few occasions over the years in which I have seen this man, he has avoided me. He knows that I know. BETWEEN TWO MEN is about these encounters, but more importantly, it proved to be a gauge of myself in sadness and yes, in rage. I was precisely in the middle; between one man who had all the patience in the world, and another, who had none.