Tina

Bette and I practically fucked our way through the holidays. Every free minute that we didn’t spend at Renee’s hospital bed, we fucked. In the bed, on the floor, on the couch, dinning table, chair, kitchen isle, dresser in the hallway, damn we even fucked on the washing machine in the dark storage room when the fireworks outside announched the New Year. I pursed my lips, sucking my gin tonic through a straw.

’Carton straws. Another dumb invention of the 21st century.’ Renee scoffed, her disdain evident as she gracefully settled into her seat at the table. Retrieving a Gauloise from the silver cigarette case, she tapped it a few times on the table’s surface. I took the Zippo from my pocket. No one said a word when she blew out the smoke in the moderately crowded bar. Not even Paul. People just didn’t reprove her. In her chic robe manteau, one among many, and with her silver hair immaculately coiled in a hairspray-sealed Grace Kelly roll, she effortlessly commanded respect – eventhough she was sick and her figure every day shrank a little. If it weren’t for the ever-present twinkle in her eyes, I would’ve been scared to death.

’Did you win?’ I asked. I still don’t know how, because her breath was wheezing and she coughed almost ceaseless, but she had managed to convince Doctor Renault to release her from the hospital, so she would make it on time this week for her weekly cards afternoon with four other ladies from the neighborhood.

’Mais, of course Tina. Marie made a tragic mistake…’ Renee’s eyes twinkled as she started to explain how their game of bridge had unfolded. I leaned back and listened with half an ear.

I knew sex wouldn’t change anything and yet I willingly participated. And not only that, but I initiated it at least half of the time. I went at it like it was the beginning of our relationship – that phase when your desire for each other is insatiable, when every opportunity to be together is a necessity. It was as if I expected to gain something profound from these raw, horny, raunchy, almost obscene encounters, aside from the delicious, mind-blowing orgasms they provided. No, we still weren’t on speaking terms, but we for sure were on fucking terms, so to speak. I was so pissed at myself.