I decide to try my luck and let the heavy door fall shut behind me.

On the fourth floor I need to pause to catch my breath and while I am leaning against the cold concrete wall behind me I quickly go over the speech I prepared on my way over here.

"Hi."

A soft voice breaks the silence and I spun around, startled by the unexpected sound. Amanda stares at me, a questioning look in her eyes. She wears running shoes that look muddy, she must have gone running in the park. Her legs are bare except for a pair of black shorts that ends mid-thigh. The long-sleeved cotton shirt she is wearing clings to her breasts, the outline of her sports bra faintly visible underneath. She's dressed for much warmer weather than the winter conditions outside. Atlanta might still offer warm nights in November, but New York City is expecting its first snowfall next week.

"Hi," I mouth because my throat is suddenly parched and seeing her standing before me, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, little beads of sweat clinging to her forehead, her eyes wide and her lips trembling slightly, she looks so young and vulnerable that I am afraid I might break her. Exertion seems to have stripped her of her defenses.

The moment passes quickly, though, and I watch her walls slip back into place, her teeth clenching slightly and blue eyes narrowing as vulnerability gives way to feigned detachment. They are the same walls each of us needs to do our job without going completely insane, but I recognize that look because it is the same expression you always wore when we fought.

We continue staring at each other, awkward and uncomfortable, until she starts walking up to her door. Unlocking it, she asks, "You wanna come in?"

She catches me by surprise so I simply nod and follow her inside. I close the door and see her disappearing into the kitchen. Walking after her, I suddenly feel like an intruder and decide to stop inside the doorframe. She takes out the orange juice I brought her the other day, turns around and takes a gulp straight from the bottle. It is little things like this that tell me she has been living alone for a long time. We are alike that way.

She fixes her eyes on mine, shooting me a challenging look. I know she is waiting for an explanation, expecting answers I should have given her before you had the chance to put the questions in her head.

"Amanda, I'm really sorry for…what happened." My words hang in the empty space between us, and the ensuing silence amplifies the sinking feeling in my stomach. My eyes are pleading with hers now, but she holds my gaze long enough to make me wonder if she has even heard what I said. As my eyes drop down to her lips, though, I notice the slight quivering that betrays her cool composure. Still she remains silent, so I try again.

"I didn't want..., I didn't know that she would…do that…" This, of course, is a blatant lie and one I regret as soon as the words have left my lips.

"Oh, is that so?" She quips, not missing a beat. "Cause you seemed quite eager to follow her." Her voice sounds distantly amused now and I cannot decide if she is genuinely mocking me or masking her pain with snark.

Did anyone tell her who you were or did she make her own deductions from the way you walked into the room, commanding the space around you, dressed in impeccable clothes and high heels that were meant to convey authority rather than to entice? Lawyers dress that way, detectives never do.

"She was our ADA back when…before she….before she left. We were….she's…" I am fumbling for words because I am realizing that for the very first time I have no idea what you are to me anymore.

Amanda interrupts my train of thought.

"Your ex, I hope," she finishes my sentence, pain seeping into her voice. "I take it she's unaware of…" she pauses and looks back up at me, "us." That last word comes out as a whisper and her hand hovers in the air between our bodies.

I feel the sudden urge to ask her what "us" means for her, if she sees white picket fences, a dog and a cat, and the two of us sipping margaritas on a wooden front porch. Or is she talking about fucking away our nights, while spending our days chasing perps, trying to make it through each day without getting shot. When she says "us", is she talking about a future or about a futile stage of the present?

You were married to your job, and I was still young enough to believe I were, too. Only mine wasn't a marriage of love but of convenience. It paid the bills and gave me a sense of accomplishment; at least it did for a while. I would have liked to play house with you, though, more than I cared to admit even to myself. I craved stability when all you offered was futility, but compromising long-term happiness for short-lived highs seemed worth it at the time. It still sometimes does. Which is why I'm surprised that at Amanda's acknowledgment of whatever it is that she and I have, I find myself wishing that I could become more to her than I was to you.

"So…unless you made a hobby out of bedding colleagues and all that I am is your latest conquest, I guess I can live with…this one." She gives me an unsure smile that betrays the hint of confidence in her voice.

I know she wants to be brave and I can't help tears welling up in my eyes. How can she be more confident in me than I am in myself? And besides, I'm sure no one has ever written you off as "this one", but I don't know whether to be hurt by her assessment of you, of us, by dismissing our shared history with the wave of a hand, or whether to compliment her poise. But I don't get the chance to finish my thought.

She crosses the kitchen towards me in two long strides, and leaning up she brings her cheek to mine, the contact of our skin sending a shiver down my spin.

Her voice is low when she whispers: "I don't see you leaving any time soon, so let's just not talk tonight, ok?"