Last evening, in the final stretch of my sweat-drenched two-mile crawl, a man parked pond-side leapt out of his car, gallantly proffering a bottle of ice-water.

His name is Joe. Introductions weren’t necessary; I know him well.

Scratch the “well”; its irony is wince-worthy. To rephrase: I met Joe twelve years ago on the job. He often drove me home and stayed for supper; we stopped on the way to scoop his “wife” Diane. (They weren’t married; Joe referred to her thus, he said, “out of respect.”)

Two years into our acquaintance, I chanced upon Diane downtown. She thrust forth her right hand, which was encased in a plaster cast. Joe had broken it. On purpose.

It was then I learned that Joe had spent thirteen years in prison; a year for each year of age of the girl he’d raped.

Yesterday, when Joe handed me the water, I accepted with a smile. It was 85 degrees out and I was grateful for it.

Besides, I didn’t want to piss him off by refusing; he knows where I live.