JOANNE

And…

Oh, God. I've only got half-memories of the rest of the night, but even so I feel like I was never alive till –

Oh, my God, what am I talking about?

I'm sounding like Chapter Five of a Harlequin novel, just after the rugged cowboy beds the ice princess heiress and she confesses that she "never lived till she died in his arms" or something ridiculous like that. I've never encountered a Harlequin novel featuring lesbians, though, which might be a good thing. Maybe I can corner the market, make myself a few bucks.

I am not going to do this. I'm not! None of this makes any sense and I'm not even going to try to make it make sense -

I was drunk last night. Maureen's been basically sexually harassing me for three weeks now. I was drunk enough to give in, but that does not make me a lesbian, and it doesn't mean – okay, just because –

See, here I go, confusing myself again. If it kills me I'm going to put the rest of that in a complete sentence.

Okay, so just because it was the best sex I've ever had in my life doesn't make me gay?

I'm not sure how that would work, but I think it's going to have to stand for the moment.

I need to get out of here. I can't think straight lying in this bed with her smelling of my perfume. I need to get home, where there isn't a yellow thong thrown over the lava lamp and a naked woman in the bed. I'm sure I can figure this out if I can just get out of here.

MAUREEN

Jesus Christ, she's not planning on walking out, is she?

JOANNE

I was in the act of standing up and hunting around for my clothes when she sat up, curls disheveled and flattened over one ear, naked with the blanket wound around her waist, still managing to look sufficiently sexy to make me turn around quickly before I lost my resolve.

"Going somewhere?" she drawled, voice raspy with sleep. I winced and, having located my panties hanging loosely off the doorknob, pulled them on quickly. The fact that they were still slightly damp didn't improve my mood any; nor did it help to put me in the proper businesslike frame of mind.

"I have to go," I said, looking around for the rest of my clothes. My bra seemed to be hanging from some sort of a hook on the wall (where the previous owner had hung a painting, perhaps?) and I abandoned that as a lost cause, but my blouse and skirt were more accessible. I was halfway into the blouse before I noticed that vodka had been spilled down the front and it reeked of smoke and body odor. "Oh, God, I can't wear this."

"So borrow something of mine… where are you going?" she said, voice starting to sharpen a bit. I heard the bedsprings creak as she sat up a little further.

I checked my watch, which, miraculously, was still on my wrist. (But how the hell had I broken the face? …a dim memory began to flutter vaguely around the edges of my mind, of slamming my wrists back against the headboard in a moment of –)

(No, not now. Later. There'd be time to figure this out later.)

The glass on the face was broken but the hands were still working, apparently. 7:35. What could I possibly have to do at 7:30 on a Saturday morning?

"I must be late for something," I found myself mumbling, then hating myself for saying it. I knew how that would sound.

"Is that how you live your life? Always figuring if you're not running somewhere you must be late for something?" she asked, and now she sounded wide-awake. Shit. "You want a shirt to go with that?"

In the act of throwing my purse over my shoulder, I looked down to realize I'd put on my skirt but abandoned my blouse because of the stains and the smell. Shit, shit. "Thanks." Keeping my back turned, I began to hunt through a pile of T-shirts on the floor. The first one I picked up was purple, with big, bold yellow lettering across the front – FIT FOR A CLIT.

I whirled around without thinking. "Where the hell did you get this?"

She laughed, apparently delighted with herself – but was it just me, or did her eyes seem just a bit too hard and focused to go with that laugh? "Isn't it great? I found it –"

"Never mind. I don't want to know." Hands shaking, I grabbed the next shirt I found and yanked it over my head. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized it was a Rainbow Brite shirt, which of course was fraught with still more symbolism I didn't want to explore. I half-turned to her, claustrophobia overwhelming me more strongly than ever. "I'll – I'll call you, okay? I just need to -" I couldn't believe I was doing this, couldn't believe I was walking out on her with the "I'll call you" line. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't –

"Hey." She pulled the blanket up over her chest. I realized she wasn't kidding around anymore; the hint of flirtation had vanished from her tone. "Why are you leaving?" she asked, point blank.

"Because – because –" Just like that, it was all spilling out. "Because I don't know what I'm doing here and I'm more confused than I ever have been in my life and I just need some time to think, okay? I'm not gay, Maureen, I'm not! I've never – and I just need some time alone – because I need to – I just need to think things through, okay, and – please, I have to go." Oh, Lord.

"No." She flipped her hair back out of her eyes with a shake of her head, blue eyes blazing. "No. You're not walking out like this."

"I'm not 'walking out' on you, Maureen!" Now, what the hell kind of sense was that supposed to make? How else could this possibly be construed?

"Oh, yeah? Then what the hell are you doing, Joanne?" As that was precisely what I'd been asking myself, I had no choice but to let it go, gaping helplessly. It didn't matter. She was rattling on. "God, is this how you always live? Can you do anything in your life without having to think it all through, without having to second-guess everything –"

"This is something I need to second-guess, Maureen!" Absurdly, I found myself wanting to stamp my foot, like a five-year-old in a temper tantrum. "I have never – been with a woman in my life! I –"

"Yeah, and you seemed to have a pretty good time of it last night," she said smoothly. I winced, automatically, as a bit more flashed back to me. "So what's the problem? Why the hell can't you lie back down here with me and cuddle for awhile? What's so important that you have to do at seven in the fucking morning?"

"It's seven-forty, and don't swear at me." I picked my purse up again, dropped it as a shudder raced through me.

"Like hell. I'll swear if I feel like it. Fuck," she added as an afterthought.

I had to laugh. It came out high and strange. "Doesn't that tell you anything? Can't you see this isn't going to work, Maureen?" Oh, what was I raving about now?

"What's *that* supposed to mean?" She sat forward more. The blanket fell down around her waist again. By then we were both too involved to notice.

"We're too different, Maureen, there's no way this could ever – how the hell is this ever supposed to work?"

"Like I said. What does that mean?" Her eyes had a hard, flinty glint to them now; they'd darkened from light blue to gray.

"Oh, come on, you don't need me to tell you! What the hell would you ever want with me?" I was breathing hard now, but come on, I couldn't start sobbing, not now, that would be the worst way to cap all this off – "I know how you think of me, I know how you pity me, thinking I have no life and I'm lonely and you have to save me and – just – just be like you, but I'm not like you, Maureen, I –"

"So I ask you again. What am I *like?*" she demanded, and now she was yelling. "I'm a woman, you're a woman, we're plenty alike if you ask me –"

"Oh, shut *up!*" I cried. "You want to know how we're not alike? How about I've been with two men in my entire life and you've been with twenty women and fifty men? How about you seem like the kind of girl who's been in an orgy or five in her life and I just can't deal with that?" I hated myself, hated the torrent of words flooding out of my mouth, raw and bitter and so cruel, but I was on a roll, I couldn't stop. "Where do you draw the line, huh? Should I be asking how many dogs you've slept with?" Oh my God, I didn't just say that.

"Just the one. I didn't much like it," she said, and my jaw dropped. The look she gave me could have iced over lava. "It was a joke. And get the fuck out of my apartment. Now."

"Gladly," I cried, and stormed out, purse swinging behind me. I tried to slam the door; my purse got caught. I struggled with it, panting. The last thing I heard before I got the purse free and whirled the door shut was "Maybe I wasn't kidding. I guess I've fucked one bitch in my life!"

I fled down the hall and out to the street before realizing my car was parked back at the bar. I leaned against a stop sign, breathing hard, crying. A car slowed as it passed; I could feel the driver checking me out, in Maureen's too-tight Rainbow Brite T, no bra, and my wrinkled, vodka-stained business skirt from last night. I slumped more heavily against the sign and let the tears come.

How could this all happen?