And now, I'd like to say a few words of praise about modern civilization. Yes, it is certainly true that it has been somewhat of a mixed blessing. On the downside: Pollution, overpopulation, materialism, pandemics, deforestation, alienation, war, nuclear bombs and mass extinctions. On the upside: Neil DeGrasse Tyson. But civilization's greatest feat? Insincerity. It is what makes people who loathe each other exchange disingenuous pleasantries in front of a glass display full of cured meats and macaroni salad at a Ralph's supermarket, when what they really want to do is bash each other over the head with a rock.

The reason I bring this is up is that early one lonely Saturday evening, I ran into The Destroyer at the deli counter of a Ralph's supermarket. And thanks to civilization, no blood was drawn.

Up until our "reset," now in its third week, Samantha had done all the grocery shopping. I had rarely set foot in Ralph's, except sometimes to grab some middling champagne for New Years Eve or some dessert to bring to a friend's house when Samantha and I were invited over. Now I went a couple times a week to purchase prepackaged and pre-made meals. They weren't particularly healthy, but what they lacked in nutrition they made up for in me not burning down the house while trying to cook. This was not an irrational fear, either. I had, on more than one occasion, set my sleeve on fire while making omelets.

Anyway, I was standing in line waiting to order the fried chicken that would constitute my dinner, and also breakfast and possibly lunch the next day. I had been there for a long time. The deli counter was ridiculously understaffed; only two people were working, one of whom was clearly a trainee — a white haired man with matching mustache — who seemed utterly bewildered by the customers' orders and utterly terrified of the meat slicing machine which seemed destined to claim at least one of his fingers. And while I wasn't rooting for him to lose a digit, the possibility that it might happen at any moment was the only thing that kept me from going out of my mind with boredom.

"Seventy-three!" the competent deli person shouted. "Seventy-three!" I looked at my ticket: Seventy-four! My wait was almost over!

And that's when I saw The Destroyer, which would have been OK had she not seen me at the same time. Having made eye contact, we now had no choice but to acknowledge each other's existence. I could see the dread on her face and feel the dread on mine, a tightness in my jaw. And yet, as she struggled to push her wobbly cart towards me, we smiled at each other. Why? Civilization, that's why.

It had been about four years since her split from Tom, and from Tammy's telling of it, things between them were better than ever. Of course, that had always been Tom's, and then Tammy's, telling of it, no matter how awful things really were. Eric Idle dying on the cross singing, "Always Look On The Bright Side of Life."

But this time there was reason to believe that their relationship had improved. They had worked out a one-week-on/one-week-off custody sharing schedule that seemed to be operating relatively smoothly. The Destroyer was still prone to spasms of blistering rage, but noticeably less so, and Tammy rarely sprinted out of the office to deal with her ex-wife's meltdowns. Instead, she walked at a moderate clip, which now that I think about it was probably as much a product of her wearing heels — now down to a manageable three inches — as emotional growth, but either way it was progress.

The Destroyer and I had barely spoken during that time. For a while, we tensely nodded at each other when she showed up at Tammy's house to pick up or drop off the kids.

How's it going?

Fine. You?

Fine.

Scintillating dialogue worthy of Arthur Miller, to be sure. In any case, The Destroyer eventually decided that it would be easier on everyone if she no longer came into Tammy's house while I was there; instead, they implemented the weekly child exchange on the front porch.

The Destroyer's cart came to rest next to mine. Close up, she seemed older. Granted, she was older (obviously) but I mean she looked even older than the older she actually was. Some of this may have been a product of the supermarket lights, which were designed to make the produce look enticing — enhancing the ripeness of cherries, the waxy shine of red peppers — but are notoriously unflattering on human skin.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Fine," I replied. "You?"

"Fine." Clearly, the old magic was still there.

It would have been convenient if my number was called in that moment, but it wasn't, so I struggled for a new topic of conversation.

"Um, how are the kids doing?" I asked.

Of course, I already knew how the kids were doing because Tammy told me. And also I had seen them briefly the previous day. In fact, in all likelihood I had seen them more recently than The Destroyer had. But if there's one thing all parents have in common it's that we can't pass up an opportunity to talk about our children.

"Fine," she said. Apparently, there was one parent who could. "Yours?"

And since she hadn't talked about her kids, I certainly couldn't talk about mine, so I also said, "Fine."

We lapsed into silence. Then I noticed The Destroyer looking over my shoulder, scowling. I turned and saw what she was looking at. Behind the counter, the competent one was nowhere to be seen and the hapless trainee was trying to hold down the fort by himself.

"Just when you thought they couldn't get any slower," I said.

The Destroyer looked at her ticket and rolled her eyes. "Christ."

"What's your number?" I asked. She held it up: Ninety-two. Ouch! "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but at the rate they're going, you're probably going to die here." It was an attempt at levity. It did not work.

"Seventy-four!" called the trainee. "Seventy-four!"

"That's me!" I shouted jubilantly. "Finally!"

"Fuck this," The Destroyer said under her breath and then, to me she said, "Good seeing you, Aaron." She started pushing her cart away. I suppose I should have just let her keep going, but, you know. Civilization.

"Hey, Whitney?" She stopped and turned to look at me wearily.

"What?"

"If you want, I'll share my number with you."

She broke out in a genuine smile, the first one I had seen from her in years. "That would be brilliant."

There is another feature of civilization called reciprocity. It means, that if someone does something nice for you, you are obligated to do something nice for them, to balance the social scales. Which is why The Destroyer, in gratitude for letting her cut the deli line, suggested that I come over to her house and she'd whip up something for dinner. I said that she didn't need to go through all that trouble. She assumed my reluctance stemmed from our long-simmering feud, and she wasn't wrong, but more than that she was British and while I am loath to reinforce cultural stereotypes, I had already experienced her cooking once, early on in Tom and The Destroyer's doomed marriage, and it reminded me of the non-toxic paste that they used for grade school art projects when I was a kid. To this day I do not know what, exactly, the dish was supposed to be, but I'm pretty sure that I still haven't finished digesting it.

But The Destroyer was insistent — clearly, she did not want to feel like she was in my debt — and since I'd already let it slip that I was just going to be spending the evening alone with a bucket of chicken in front of the television, I didn't have any plausible excuse for turning her down. So I went home, put away my groceries, said good night to the kids and headed out.

"Where are you going?" Samantha asked.

"Whitney's." Samantha raised an eyebrow. Then another one. She had terrific control over her eyebrows. Positively Belushi-esque. "We're in love," I deadpanned. She smiled at my joke, but still waited for an explanation, so I gave her the broad strokes of our Ralph's encounter.

"OK," she said. "But if you get a chance, ask Whitney what the hell she does all day." This was a question that had long vexed my wife. The Destroyer had no job and only took care of the kids every other week. Even then they were away at school for eight hours a day on weekdays. Plus, she had a house cleaner and a part-time nanny.

I'm not sure why it bothered Samantha so much, but it did.

"Will do," I agreed.

As I left, she called after me. "Have fun in crazy town!" I waved without turning around.

The Destroyer and I had two things in common. Tammy and a deep and abiding love of alcohol. So in an abundance of caution instead of driving I took an Über to her place up in the hills. This was only a few months into Über's operation in Los Angeles, before we learned how evil the company really was, and kept using them anyway.

"I decided to order in," The Destroyer said when she opened the door. "If that's OK." I told her it was.

It was strange, walking into the house that had once belonged to Tom and The Destroyer. As far as I could tell, it looked basically the same, and there was this eerie sense of having been transported back in time to when Tammy was still Tom, desperately clinging to his delusive masculinity by his not-yet-painted fingernails. It was also a time, I realized uncomfortably, when I was delusive as well, believing that my own marriage was indestructible, a cactus that never needed watering.

She had ordered Thai food. A few appetizers and a couple of entrées in styrofoam boxes open on the kitchen island. The Valley was populated almost exclusively by liberals, but for some reason our environmental consciousness vanished when it came to take-out. There was also a bottle of Napa Chardonnay already opened on the kitchen island, and a quarter empty. "You want some?" I wasn't much of a white wine drinker, but you know. When in crazy town...

The Destroyer poured me a healthy glass of pale yellow liquid, then topped off her own glass and held it up. "Sláinte."

I raised my glass in return. "L'chaim." We each took a sip — it was a little oaky for my taste, but drinkable — and then we helped ourselves to larb, spring rolls and mango chicken. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Our conversation, which started off stiff and guarded turned increasingly pleasant and relaxed thanks to the social lubrication of alcohol. Initially, we talked about Suit & Tie and our chances of being picked up for a second season — my take: Who the fuck knows? — something in which The Destroyer obviously had a vested interest. Then we moved to other topics: The insanity of private school parents, annoying neighbors, the upcoming Presidential election. Things were going well enough that when we hit a lull in the conversation I felt comfortable dispelling the silence by asking, "So... what exactly do you do all day?"

The Destroyer smiled at my tactlessness, but then became thoughtful. "That's a really good question." Her answer involved the few hours a week she spent doing volunteer work, the classes she took online, the numerous hobbies she started, then abandoned, out of frustration or ennui. "And when all else fails?" The Destroyer lifted her glass presentationally, drained it and then went to the refrigerator to get another bottle.

The Destroyer, it seemed to me, was drifting, detached from her own life. She didn't necessarily hate it, but nothing in particular held her interest, except her kids, and sometimes not even them. It made me a little sad for her, but also happy for Samantha, who would finally have her answer.

"So now I have a question for you," she said as she opened a new bottle with a stainless steel automatic opener. It was pretty cool. Like opening wine on a starship.

"Bring it."

She pressed a button and with a high-pitched whine the opener ejected the cork. Magic! "Why do you hate me?" I had a disquieting sense of déjà vu. I racked my brain. Where had I heard that before? Oh, right. Dungeon Master Eric's wife. The Anti-Christ. Good times.

"I don't hate you," I said. She gave me a skeptical look and some more wine.

"Be honest."

"I don't hate you," I insisted. And then I amended my statement. "Anymore." In vino veritas.

"Do you still call me The Destroyer?" She sat down across from me again and leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting in her palms. She was enjoying putting me on the defensive, making me squirm.

"I... assumed that Tom... Tammy... whoever... would have had the good sense not to tell you that." She held my gaze, fighting the urge to laugh. "But! I will stop calling you that! Whitney. And now that that's behind us... new topic!"

"We're not quite done with this one yet," she said.

"We're not?" She shook her head. "Shit!" I was trying to keep the mood light, but she had become very serious.

"I just want to know, Aaron: What did I do to you to make you hate me so much?" There was pain in her voice now and for the second time in two minutes, I felt bad for her. And also myself, because it used to be fun to hate The Destroy— I mean, Whitney — and now it wasn't.

I sighed. "You didn't do anything to me. But I really didn't like the way you treated Tom." I did my best to make it sound like an explanation rather than an accusation.

Whitney took a few moments to gather her thoughts, to calm her breathing, to subdue her anger. "Did it ever occur to you," Whitney said, each calm syllable she uttered its own masters class in restraint, "that Tom might not have been the victim in all this?"

"Honestly? No. It didn't."

Whitney frowned. "Really? I figured that if anybody would understand, it would be you."

"I mean... I get that it was hard for you, but..."

"But what?"

"Ultimately, it's all for the good, right?"

She gave me a stare that could strip paint. "All for whose good, Aaron? Yours? Mine? What did I get out of this?" The smartass in me wanted to say, A free house? but wisely didn't. "You know, people are constantly telling me to get out there again, start dating, find someone new. Fucking idiots."

"Well," I said, carefully wading into the water, "It's not the worst advice in the world."

"It's not?"

"No. I mean, you're attractive and intelligent—"

"Would you date me, Aaron?" Her composure was slowly unraveling.

"Um... you're my best friend's ex, so..."

"It's a hypothetical, you git. And no, you bloody wouldn't." She gave me a few moments to dispute her analysis, and when I didn't, she continued, "And you bloody well shouldn't."

"You're not my type, but as my grandmother used to say, there's a seat for every ass."

"What?"

"It's an expression. It means there's someone for every—" She had no patience for my grandmother's dumb proverbs.

"Look: I know I'm not an easy person to live with. For so many reasons. But my biggest problem has always been trust." Not to toot my own horn, but this had been my diagnosis as well. "But then I met Tom. And he was so patient with me. He waited years until I was ready. Which was flattering. But you know what made me fall in love with him?"

His huge cock? I didn't say.

"He said, No matter what, you can always trust me." She teared up. "And I believed him."

Now I felt like tearing up, too

"But it turns out he was lying about everything. He lied about who he was. He lied about what he was thinking. He lied about what he was feeling. He lied about what he was doing. He lied about the people he was doing it with."

"Your right" I commiserated. "And it sucks. But if it helps, I know for a fact he... she... genuinely loved you." God damn. These fucking pronouns.

"Oh, yeah?" Her laugh was corrosive. "Know that for a fact do you? Because I know for a fact that I was never Tom's wife. Not really. I was his fucking prop." She did an unflattering imitation of Tom's voice. "Look at me! I married this beautiful, sexy woman so I must be a real man!"

I thought that was a little vain, but I let it go.

"You have every right to feel hurt—"

"Do I? Well, thank you! So very kind of you!" She was barely keeping the lid on her anger now.

"—I just don't think you're being completely fair."

She leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair, and pointed at me with an accusing finger. "There! Right there! That's what pisses me off the most!" I had never been on the receiving end of Whitney's full fury before. Holy shit, people! It was terrifying! "Why are you defending him? Why is everyone defending him! Her! Fuck! After all the shit that Tom... Tamara... put me through, he — fuck! she — why does she, he, fucking whatever, get a total pass from everybody just because she's trans-fucking-gender?"

There was no denying that Whitney had a point. None of Tom's sins seemed to transfer to Tamara and for someone who felt — with reason — that she was an injured party, it was supremely frustrating. And yet, reflexively, I continued to take Tammy's side. "Well... I mean... he wasn't trying to hurt you. And you've got to admit, it's great that she's found her true self."

Whitney slumped her shoulders and dropped her head. "Yes, Aaron" she said weightily, "I know. I. Fucking. Know!" She lifted her head and looked at me. "It's bloody marvelous, isn't it? How much my ex-husband loves her new life as a woman! I hear it all the time. She's so courageous! She's a bloody in-spir-ation!" Whitney raised her hands in the air, like an Evangelical preacher. "Hallelujah! Praise Jesus! Hail Tranny, full of grace!"

I wasn't sure what to say to that, but it didn't matter because Whitney was not done.

"Look. If you did to Samantha the same shit that Tom did to me? Everyone would think that you were a world class shit bag." Normally, I would have interjected with They already think I'm a shit bag! but again I decided it would not be well-received. "Samantha wouldn't have to deal with these certified morons going on and on about how brave you are or how wonderful it is that a fucking liar like you was finally happy! She would be the victim and everyone would be on her bloody side!"

Whitney still wasn't done.

"And yet." She shook her head, angry with herself now. "And yet, after everything that's happened, there's still a piece of me that thinks, It's all my fault. I was such an emasculating bitch that my husband gave up on his manhood."

"You know that's not really—"

"Yes! Aaron! I do know it's not really what happened. But I can't help but think it. And I know that a lot of other people do, too." She gave me an accusing look.

I held up my hands in surrender. "I never thought that." Her eyes narrowed predatorily. "I mean, I joked about it a few times, but..."

She took a deep breath and then released it. And just like that, the storm had passed, its sudden dissipation in some ways more disquieting then her fierce outbursts. Whitney righted her chair and sat back down at the table. She poured herself some more wine and offered me some. I waved her off.

"Doesn't it ever make you mad, Aaron?" Her voice was soft now. Quietly pleading. "You've been friends for — what? — twenty-five years?"

"Thirty."

"Don't you ever feel like you were cheated? Like a part of your life was stolen from you? All that energy, all that love, you poured into someone you didn't really even know."

It occurred to me then how ironic Whitney's recently retired nickname had been. Tamara was doing great. It was Whitney who was destroyed. True, she was pretty damaged to begin with; I continued to believe that was one reason that Tom chose Whitney, because he desperately needed someone who desperately needed him. And while I did not completely buy Whitney as simply a victim, there was no doubt she took an absolutely brutal hit. I did not believe that Tom intended any harm — I believed that he had loved her, still loved her — but that didn't change the fact that she was shattered, and it was Tom's fault.

"I get what you're saying, Whitney. I really do. And I'm sorry for all of the mean things I've said about you." I pondered and then corrected myself. "Well, most of the mean things." She smiled at that. "You definitely didn't deserve what happened to you. But... I can't see him as some sort of heartless monster. I don't know. Maybe I'm naive, but... I just... want to be a supportive friend. I mean, if I don't do it, who will?"

"Besides Coco and her gaggle of squawking twats, you mean?" I had no idea what she was talking about, and she read it on my face.

"Oh!" Whitney said, her voice brimming with the joy of discovery. "Tamara didn't tell you about Coco?"

"No," I said, incredulous. "Who the hell is Coco?"

She regarded me for a few seconds, savoring the moment.

"You're going to want some more wine."