"But I didn't get my New Year's kiss, and it's almost midnight!" Blanche yelled desperately at the empty night, before closing the door with a bang. "Darn it!"

Her latest date disaster had just stormed out at a few minutes to twelve because of some last minute purity concerns, and suddenly her sacred tradition was in danger – how was she going to start into the new year without a kiss?

With a sigh, she returned to the sofa where instead of her date, there was only Dorothy left, who – as usual – hadn't been able to get a date to begin with. Rose was out with Miles, and Sophia was at a party with some of her senior friends. Blanche sat down next to her best friend, moping.

"That didn't go too well now, did it?" commented Dorothy.

"Oh, what do you care, your tone for the next 365 days doesn't need to be set, it's always the same!"

"So's yours, honey. Why does it matter if you kiss someone now, we both know that in a few days' time you'll have someone new to ease your lonely nights."

Even though Blanche was looking at the TV, she could still hear how her friend rolled her eyes.

"You don't understand, Dorothy, I have to kiss someone at midnight, or-"

Sooner than she thought, the television guy interrupted her and announced the countdown to midnight. Cheerful people counted down from ten and toasted with champagne, while Blanche pouted. Ten seconds later, the fireworks started and a thought crossed Blanche's mind – maybe everything was not lost yet.

She looked at her friend to her left, contemplating her as if she saw her for the first time that night. Dorothy seemed to feel her glance, and turned around slowly.

"Oh, what the hell," Blanche mumbled, and before Dorothy had a chance to react, the southern belle planted a gentle kiss on her lips. With surprise, she realized how soft Dorothy was, how different and yet how alike kissing her was to – well, kissing. Gently, her best friend started to respond, and although at first she was caught aback, after a second she gave in to the temptation. Maybe it was the alcohol, the spirit of the night, maybe just curiosity, but this kiss was the most intriguing one she'd had in a while, and she'd had quite a few. The tickling of Dorothy's long fingers as they combed through her hair, the softness of her cheek underneath Blanche's hand, the sweet moistness of her mouth…

Blanche finally withdrew with a sigh. As if she were waking up, all the other sensations came back, and the noise of the TV suddenly seemed deafening.

"Now, what kind of tone does that set for the year?" Dorothy asked, still not taking her eyes off Blanche or her hand off her knee.

"I – I'm not so sure. It was probably just really silly of me," Blanche said, trying to laugh it off. "Never mind."

Blanche felt relieved when Dorothy took her hand back after a tense silence, and directed her attention at the TV instead of insisting on the issue. She stayed at her side for a while, trying to enjoy the program and the rest of the night, but she just couldn't bring herself to like it. As soon as she felt it was inconspicuous, she excused herself and went to bed. But lying there alone in the dark didn't make it easier. She tried to fall asleep, but the impressions haunted her. She couldn't stop feeling the gentle caress of her friend's tongue against hers, hearing her soft sigh as she let go – and it all made her feel even madder at herself. Why had she done this? And even worse, why was she reacting like this? That had been only Dorothy, for God's sake, not exactly a dream of her sleepless nights.

Well, until tonight, she thought, as the clock turned to 2:30 AM and she was still wide awake. Normally, she would've gone to the kitchen in search of something edible, preferably cheesecake, but now she didn't even dare do that – what if Dorothy was up, too? No, she couldn't risk meeting her now. The others were bound to be home by now, too, although Rose might stay at her boyfriend's. Blanche flinched at the thought of the long holiday ahead – both the museum and the school were closed on January 1st, and she hadn't made any plans. She could only hope that by tomorrow she'd feel better. There was no way she would lose her best friend over this silly feeling, Blanche thought, and forced her eyes shut.

New Year's Day was everything but the usual, cozy and quiet holiday it used to be. Blanche got up late, had breakfast alone and only saw Dorothy briefly in the living room when she headed out for her last minute date with good ol' Mel Bushman. They said hello, Blanche had a little chit-chat fight with Sophia, and Dorothy shot a sarcastic comeback at one of Rose's terribly naïve remarks – still, the sour feeling in Blanche's gut hadn't disappeared at all, and when she looked at Dorothy, she suddenly seemed to look at a whole new woman. She'd lived with her for what, five years already? But since that kiss, she saw her friend with other eyes. The serious expression on her face no longer seemed as harsh, the long wide clothes no longer that hideous, the chocolate brown eyes seemed to have come alive in some magical way, and drew Blanche in with forces she herself usually applied to get some particularly desirable man to pay her the attention she deserved.

When the doorbell rang, Blanche rushed to open it, and with relief she let herself be embraced and taken out by the charming guy she'd known for so long she even had a key to his house. He took her out for lunch, a long stroll along the boardwalk afterwards, where they started talking about Miami Vice. Mel was passionate about it, but apparently not enough so to not notice Blanche's distraction.

"Blanche, darling, are you alright? Are you still mad about that Bahamas thing?", he asked, as they walked by an ice cream vendor and a few hung over tourists.

"Oh, don't be silly, of course not. I'm not mad about anything," she said, observing the seagulls that were fighting over a piece of cone somebody dropped on the pavement.

"But something's the matter with you today. Was it someone who cancelled on you today, so you had to call me?"

"Nobody cancelled on me today, honey, I just felt like seeing you. It's been a few months," Blanche said and emphasized by touching his arm playfully. She'd always been an excellent actress, and she wouldn't allow any more of those silly memories to ruin her date, even if it was only Mel. So she made an effort to chat and small talk, giggle and flirt just as usual, and even when they ended up at his place, as usual, she played by the rules.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy it, she thought, as she was walking home. Mel knew how to please her, and the exchange was always mutual, better than many others, and it had been good to see him again. He'd even treated her to dinner, too. Now, it was late, and she'd decided to decline his offer for a taxi and walk the few blocks. She could use some more air.

As much as she'd enjoyed the time with ol' reliable, she couldn't stop thinking of Dorothy, or better, the issue, as she called it now. She tried to make sense of it all, as she observed the first stars appear in the yves-klein blue sky. The longer she thought about it, the more logical explanations she found – Dorothy probably hadn't been kissed by anyone in months, it wasn't that weird that she responded. And as for herself, well, it was just a silly tradition. She'd never kissed a woman before, and she most certainly never would again, she decided. Blanche Devereaux did not kiss women, and even if she did, she'd pick someone reasonably attractive. Hypothetically, of course, meaning not ever. She nodded to herself, as she crossed the street and turned into Richmond Drive. From now on she would continue to live as if nothing had happened, because that's how it was, nothing had happened.

Dorothy decided to approach her on day 10 of the new year. Almost two weeks had passed, and Blanche had refused to even mention their kiss. Right on the next day, she'd practically run off with Mel Bushman, and since then she'd had at least three other lovers – those that Dorothy knew of. Blanche was acting normal, but it almost seemed a little too normal to Dorothy. She couldn't have missed how she'd kissed her back, and she couldn't think Dorothy didn't notice how she seemed to avoid being alone with her, even though she'd never let anything slip, said the same things, did the same things.

Now, at way past midnight, Dorothy was sitting on the sofa with a piece of anti-depressive chocolate cheesecake, a cup of tea and a book, waiting for her best friend to come home from her date. If she came alone, she might be able to talk to her, and considering it was her first date with that guy (Dorothy didn't even know his name), it wasn't very probable she'd bring him to spend the night, especially since Blanche knew pretty much every cheap hotel in greater Miami.

Oh, why was she even thinking about that? Dorothy finished her cake, and leaned back to continue with the adventures of Philip Marlowe for a while. In the peaceful silence, with nothing but the cool nightly air around her, she got lost for a while in the story she'd read many times. She'd turned quite a few pages by the time a sound outside startled her. She looked up and there was Blanche, stepping inside. Her mouth formed a little o when she saw Dorothy, who put her book aside.

"Hello Blanche."

The belle dropped her keys in her tiny red glitter purse and came a step closer. "Dorothy, what are you doing up?"

"I was hoping we might talk."

"Can't it wait til tomorrow? I've had a long night."

"It's important. Why don't you sit down?"

Blanche sat down in the closest armchair, crossing her legs and bobbing her left foot up and down. "So, what is it?" Her eyes were directed at Dorothy in a curious glance.

"Oh come on, Blanche, you know exactly what this is."

"I do not, so spit it out or I'm goin' to bed."

"Are you just going to pretend it didn't happen? You could've at least talked to me." As Blanche kept looking with that same innocent expression, Dorothy rolled her eyes. "The goddamn kiss!", she hissed.

Blanche started to shift in her seat. "What about it?"

"If it meant as little to you as you're pretending, why are you so different? Ever since it happened, you don't talk to me, you hardly look at me, and you practically throw yourself at any man that crosses your path- what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing's the matter with me, Dorothy. It was just a silly kiss, it was nothing, and I don't know what you want from me!"

"I want you to be honest with me!"

Blanche just kept staring at her, arms crossed and lips pursed.

"Fine, then I'll be honest with you!" Dorothy said, agitated but trying not to yell. "To me, it was not 'nothing', and you might have noticed, you know, cause I think the way I kissed back made that pretty clear. Now you might think it was because you're so devastatingly beautiful, and nobody could ever resist you, well, no, it's not. I could and I would've resisted if that was what I wanted, but I didn't, so you make your guess."

Blanche didn't even blink, she was frozen solid listening to her.

"You have no idea how much I wanted it, and how sure I was that I was never going to get it. Well, here's the twist: now I wished I had never got it. This treatment you're giving me is worse than anything before. After all this time, you still don't see how much you mean to me. Blanche, I'm in love with you, I've been for so long I can't even remember when I wasn't."

The southern belle had visible trouble maintaining her composure, and clutched to her purse to her chest as if it were some kind of shield. She finally cleared her throat.

"Dorothy, you know I don't swing that way, ever. I realize it must be tempting, being around someone as breath-taking as me all the time, and I probably shouldn't have kissed you just for the sake of that stupid tradition, considering how lonely you are, but-"

"What?"

"I guess I just wanted to do you a favor, see if I can set a better tone for your new year, but it seems it backfired."

"I'm not saying this because you kissed me – well, no, actually I am, because you made me think I had some kind of chance. Or did you just make out with me from sheer force of habit?!"

"I did not make out with you. I might've got carried away, because I was tipsy and it was New Year's, but that's all. I don't know why you have to make such a fuss over this."

"Didn't you hear me? I said I was in love with you!"

"Keep your voice down!"

"I have been for ages, but of course, you're so self-centered, you didn't even notice!"

"What does it matter? I am not like you, and I never will be, so you better forget about it," Blanche said and uncrossed her legs. "So if that was all…"

"That's all you've got to say? I thought I was your best friend."

"And you are, honey, but… I just don't wanna hear any more about it, so it can stay that way."

Dorothy nodded, resigning. Blanche said a quick good night and disappeared to her room as fast as she could. Dorothy remained on the sofa for a while, shaking her head in disbelief of how bad it had gone. Slowly, the weight in her chest got heavier, until it was unbearable, and she felt that any moment now she would fall down into hell's abyss. How had she lead herself to think that Blanche, hypersexual, man-eating, petite, perfect Blanche could ever be interested in someone like her? Absent-mindedly, she picked up the dirty dishes and her book, leaving the first in the kitchen, and taking the latter with her as she dragged her tired body to bed.

Alone in her room, the disappointment and sadness of it all overwhelmed her, and instead of going to sleep, she spent the next hours crying into the pillow as quietly as she could. She should've known it would end like this, she had known from the start that falling for Blanche Deveraux was the most foolish thing she'd ever done, except maybe marrying Stanley. Now she'd received the just deserts for it. Over were the times of silent admiration, the tickling all over her when Blanche took her hand, or that kick of adrenaline when they hugged, hoping that she didn't notice, or maybe hoping that she did. Now it was all out in the open, and it was all ruined. Blanche hadn't even cared for her feelings, she'd put them off as some silly little confusion, when they were so much more. In the past ten days and nights, hardly a minute had passed in which Dorothy didn't remember some detail, some feeling, of that single moment of perfection she'd been granted, and even at night she couldn't get it out of her head. Where her dreams had featured Blanche before, they now focused exclusively on her, and everything about her. It made Dorothy feel like some lovesick teenager, when she should've been over that phase more than thirty years ago. But then again, Stanley had never been able to make her feel even a tenth of the emotional tornado Blanche unleashed in her. Right now, though, Dorothy wished her feelings were a little less destructive, so she was almost grateful when, god knows when, she was too tired even to cry, and with a headache and eyes sore from shedding too many tears she finally fell asleep.

A sudden touch on her arm startled Dorothy back into reality. It was Tuesday morning, and instead of finishing her coffee, she'd gotten lost in her thoughts again. Rose sat down next to her.

"Are you alright, Dorothy?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?" she said as nicely as she could, and took a sip from her cup. Ew. It was all cold.

"You've been sitting here alone for so long I thought you'd fallen asleep."

"What time is it?" Dorothy asked, panicking. "I'm going to be late!"

"It's only 7:30, you were the first one up, again."

Dorothy shot an inquiring glance at her friend, who was already dressed for work. Instead of answering to the unspoken challenge, she got up and grabbed a cup of coffee for herself.

"You know you can talk to me if there's something wrong", she said, as she sat back down. "Is it because of your mother? I'm sure she didn't mean it when she said you look like Chev Parker."

"Thank you so much for reminding me of that, Rose. Just what I needed for a good start into this miserable day."

"Well, I'm sorry, but when I see that a friend of mine is sad, and you definitely are, I just want to help."

"I don't need your help," Dorothy snapped.

"Fine then, Miss baggy eyes, keep suffering on your own then," Rose replied, and proceeded to pout silently.

Dorothy got up, quickly rinsed out her cup, and left for her room to get ready and get going. With a sigh, she gathered her books and supplies, got changed, threw on some make up and left early for school.

She managed class better than she did interacting with her roommates these days, she thought with a little more sadness, when she'd finished for the day. It was only one o'clock, and she decided to treat herself to lunch at the Habana. She didn't usually like to eat out by herself, but going home seemed even less appealing, and she hadn't had their famous arroz a la cubana in ages. It turned out to be rather enjoyable, even though frying a banana still seemed like a weird idea to her, and afterwards she took a walk in the sun that warmed and cheered her up a little even in January. She passed by the beach, where the tourists and the locals bathed and fought together, the seagulls yelled and everything was going as always.

After a while, on her way back, Dorothy stopped at the railing and looked out over the ocean. Its vast cobalt blue surface and the continuous roaring of its waves had a calming effect on her. She stayed there for a while, just as lost in her thoughts as she'd been that same morning, but in a much more peaceful way. She shouldn't be angry at herself, or at Blanche, anymore, she thought. Blanche was the way she was and nobody would ever change that. The same was true for Dorothy – she'd been through some tough times in her life, but she'd never let it get her down, and there was no reason to change that. If she'd gotten over being knocked up, having to marry that idiot and not being able to pursue the education career she'd always wanted, she'd easily get over Blanche, too. It wasn't even the first time something like this had happened to her, there'd been someone in college, some acquaintances on the way and even a colleague in school some time – she'd done it before and she'd do it again.