“We’re not all diesel dykes.  Some of us are, but not all of us.  You probably think you don’t know other ***** people…”

Bette interrupted, “Oh, no, not at all.  I’m an art history major.  I know dozens of ***** men.”

“But how many women?”

Shaking her head, Bette responded in the negative.

“You work in a library.  Librarians and those working in the library are known far and wide to be *****.”

“Is that true?”

“No, just a myth.  You’re straight.”  Gail paused and looked at Bette whose eyes traveled the art hanging on the wall.  “Right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bette said and looked at Gail.  “Yeah, I am.”

Gail sipped her espresso and Bette sat there awkwardly, so very unsure as to what to say.  She pulled a small piece from her muffin and began to chew, but her mouth suddenly felt like cotton inside and she choked down the bread.

“My girlfriend’s name was Elaine.  We were together for about six years, had a place on Central Park West–barely on it.  You’d have to stand at exactly the right spot in the living room to actually see the park from the window.  But, basically, it was a good life.  One day she came home and said she was sick of New York and was going home to Hot Springs.  Hot Springs, Arkansas.  She asked me if I’d join her, knowing I wouldn’t.  Me?  In Arkansas?  I doubt I could even find it on a map.  It was her way of leaving without feeling too bad about it.  I was the one who said I wouldn’t go, so I must have been the one to want out of the relationship.  For a while, I even believed it.  It was a bad time because I had just had my birthday a few days before.  I was totally feeling over-the-hill and to make it all the worse, my lover was dumping me.”

“That’s sad, I’m sorry.”

“I’m over it.  We had been dead together for a long time and she had the guts to do something about it.  You know how long she lasted in Hot Springs?”

“No.”

“Ten days.”