It's an awkward conversation but you wonder why none of this occurred to you earlier. Third base, in particular, seems fairly obvious when laid out (not literally) on the table. Gladys is more helpful than you'd expected, but it's still awkward listening to her tell you things that had been done to her.

You thank her for the information and say goodnight before you head up for your own bath. There's a lot of things you hadn't considered; that this behavior Gladys outlined isn't limited to gender. Foreplay, she'd called it. It's not something you would have done with Ivan, even if you'd married, and even though Gladys was recalling her own experiences all you could think of was Betty's hands running over the skin of that soldier girl.

You don't know who you are any more. Your body, submerged, is unfamiliar. Who are you, that you can ask these questions; who are you, that you are having these thoughts.

It was always Betty and you, you and Betty. You can see part of that was her design, but once she gained your trust, she had you. You followed her into a den of iniquity, you followed her into a church. You'd follow her into the very mouth of hell, if you had to. You might have to, eventually, if the Bible is right, but if the Bible is right, some of the bombs you built killed people so you're already guilty. The kingdom of heaven belongs to your father and not you, and you'd rather not go to heaven if you know he's there waiting for you.

Is it worth it? You find yourself asking. What if you can't go through with it, or find a man you actually like a few years down the track and you lose Betty because of it? Are you willing to give up everything for her?

She gave up everything for you. Everything. But this is so uncertain, so ubiquitous. Any move made will have to be made by you, because Betty thinks she knows better than to make a move. She thinks she knows how you'll react. She doesn't know that the memory of her plump lips still haunt your fingers. You could tell her. You should probably tell her. You don't want to deceive her, but you don't want to lead her on, just in case this isn't something you want, that your loneliness is driving you to her.

You meet plenty of men at the revue, plenty of men that treat you nicely. You haven't once been transfixed by their mouths while they talk, by their hands as they gesticulate, animated over a prior argument. It's just Betty, just Betty that you watch, just Betty that you indulge. It's only Betty that you fight for.

You remember a time before you felt this way. A time when you were confused and hurt that your best friend thought you were a deviant. But even then, something drew you to her, and the fact that she was out there living her life without you was what made life in the trailer the least bearable.

Her life without you, your life without her, these were less bearable than life with your father.

Betty's door is ajar when you finally get out of the tub. She calls out your name as your door creaks open, and you briefly consider not going to her. There's too much whirling in your head to be able to articulate with her anything other than your confusion.

But you need to see her. You need to make sure she's comfortable, you need to be close to her.

Author's note: I'm spending three nights on the other side of the country as my bird. It's the longest we'll have been apart for five years.