Some Like It Hot-Buttered by JEFFREY COHEN Page A

myself into a funk by comparing my life to that of a man so well loved someone had poisoned his popcorn, and then my most trusted employee (which, admittedly, wasn’t a hard-won title) seemed to be getting deeper and deeper into trouble over a crime that, on top of all the other implications, could ruin my relationship with film distributors and put my fledgling business into more jeopardy.
    And now I had a unicycle where this morning I had a fully functioning mode of transportation. I do not ride unicycles. Clearly, things were on a downward spiral.
    Leslie parked the car in front of my (very, very green) front door, and got out of the car as I removed the carcass of my bicycle from her trunk.
    “I really don’t need help, you know,” I said.
    For a split second she looked like I’d punched her, but that expression was immediately replaced with a smile. “Of course not,” she answered. “I didn’t think so.”
    She followed me as I carried the bike up and we stood on the stoop, looking at each other like two junior high kids doing their best to maintain eye contact when there were so many more interesting places to look. I heard myself exhale.
    “You don’t have to see me inside the town house,” I continued. “I realize you’re a police officer and everything, but I’ve been making it into my house unchaperoned for some time now.”
    “You sure? You don’t need me to look in the bedroom closet for monsters?” There was a shy smile attempting to make itself known on her lips.
    “Are you flirting with me?” I decided I’d ask. Best to get these things out in the open.
    “No,” Leslie replied immediately. Oops. I’d overstepped.
    “Oh. Um, sorry . . .”
    “I’m not flirting with you. You’re flirting with me .” And she grinned. “I don’t mind.”
    More awkward silence. I should point out that this is my normal approach to romance, which makes it all the more remarkable that I’ve ever been on a date, let alone been married for six years. Until eighteen months ago. But I’m not bitter.
    “Well.” Smooth, huh? “Then you won’t mind if I keep flirting.” I had no idea what I was talking about.
    “I might even flirt back,” Leslie said. I began to wonder how I’d know when she did, but that was something to think about another time.
    Believe me, Leslie Levant was an attractive woman. Hell, I was willing to bet that without the baton, the walkie-talkie, and, let’s face it, the gun, she was a beautiful woman. But I was so far out of practice it was hard to remember what I was supposed to do. Marriage does many things to a man, one of which is to screw up his dating techniques. Mine had never been in the top 70 percent to begin with.
    Before my brain started to ponder whether she just liked me, or liked me liked me, I plunged in. “Would you like to have dinner?” I said. I would have asked her to a movie, but my theatre was closed.
    Her face lit up, which was what I had hoped for, but really hadn’t expected. “I’m really not dressed for it, but I’d love to,” Leslie said.
    I hadn’t actually meant now , but what the hell.
    As it turned out, my refrigerator held exactly one onion, a pint of half-and-half of dubious freshness, two packages of AA batteries, and a six-pack of Rolling Rock (the freezer had two empty ice cube trays and a quart of Edy’s ice cream). So we decided to go to the Harvest Moon Brewery, a microbrewery and restaurant on George Street, which was within walking distance of my town house.
    Leslie cut quite the figure in her Midland Heights cop outfit, but I don’t think that’s why so many of the men in the room were watching her so closely. I started to realize exactly how unlikely it was for me to be sitting with this woman in this place on this night.
    My dating history would indicate that this would be where I’d find a way to screw up the situation, so I forged ahead.
    “So. Who are you, anyway?” I asked. You have to learn to ease into a sensitive