Once a week my ex-husband and I meet for dinner. Those first meals were comically painful as we made polite, awkward conversation while covertly eyeing each other for signs of decay. Is her hair really still black or does she dye it now? Did he always have that little furrow beside his mouth or is it a sign of age?

We were former boxers warily facing each other across the table. We'd lost the desire to fight but remained acutely aware of our unresolved battles.  The wrong topic, (hell, even the wrong word) could spur either of us to lace up the gloves and resume the war once again.  So, we were delicate - very, very delicate - with each other. 

Occassional phone calls bracketed the weekly meals.  At first these were equally uncomfortable.   They were businesslike in brevity and tone and usually about money since he was generously financing my economic recovery.   I've had warmer transactions with bank tellers.

Then we began e-mailing each other.  And a door opened.  Our  exchanges were light in tone and our language unguarded.   Written communication gave us the space and distance we needed to honestly explore, evaluate and eventually resolve past hurts.  The e-mails grew ridiculously long and frequent.  

Text messages slipped into the mix.   Playful one-liners and silly pictures.  Suddenly we were calling each other, having long e-mail conversations and texting randomly through the day and evening. The painful unresolved issues we could not broach face to face became easy to discuss with electronic devices as our intermediaries.  We finally stopped talking at each other and began communicating instead.

We communicated our way into a friendship.  Although our marriage was brief and disastrous, our strange friendship seems destined to endure. It helps that we have known each other since childhood. It helps that our roots are deeply and irrevocably intertwined among our families.  It helps that he never stopped being a wonderful father to my sons.

Our weekly meal has become a ritual we anticipate and enjoy.   We  laugh, argue, recollect adventures and misadventures, share plans and solve the world’s problems over sushi or pasta. We are no longer treading lightly in shark infested waters. I chide him for his shitty diet, “I saw a potato chip wrapper in your car!” He feigns shock that I am still a health nut and control freak and I respond that he remains the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.  He knows that when the server arrives I will order his meal and it will be disgustingly healthy.

Last week my new friend sheepishly admitted he enjoys feeling “taken care of" when I call each morning and demand that he eat breakfast before leaving the house.  He has always been a man who spends his every waking moment caring for others without admitting vulnerability or need. I secretly enjoyed knowing that I've finally succeeded in slipping beneath that armor.

As we were leaving the restaurant tonight I caught him eyeing my butt.   I’m 48 years old; it’s nice to have my butt appreciated. I added a sassy little strut to my roll.

I intensely disliked the man who was my husband. I am starting to love the man who is becoming my friend. Funny how life works.