When I spotted Donald Rumsfeld at the Reagan Airport in DC some years ago, striding along with his leather valise, I could not help myself.
"Aren't you Donald Rumsfeld?" I asked, just to be sure before I let loose.
He pulled up short and, with head cocked toward me and smiling wryly, said, "Why, yes I am." The valise changed hands.
"I thought so," I said. "I just wanted to let you know how many nights I have laid awake cursing your fucking name."
His relaxed eyebrows crunched, and his grin puckered. "Well, that's your problem," he snarled, with the same nasal sarcasm that he used on reporters during the Iraq War that his lies had started.
"No, it's really your problem," I yelled after him, as he strode away down the concourse.
If it ever was my problem, it is no longer. It really is his, all the way down through the burning light years of endless and indistinguishable days and nights.