So that’s why when I showed up kind of late, she was outside already, leaning against the wall and smoking. I think I also forgot to mention about how, while I am by no means, under any circumstances in love with Bette Porter, I certainly could be because she’s so my type, appearance-wise. She’s tall and has dark hair (love brunettes, man) and these ***** amazing arms and the most gorgeous brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I mean, I’m not going to pretend that she’s not hot, because that would be dumb, and she’s a good dresser, too-a little obsessed with designer labels if you ask me, and swears by Neiman Marcus a little bit to the extreme, but isn’t that one the best things a person can say about their girlfriend, that she’s a good dresser?

Not that Bette’s my girlfriend.

But she is a good dresser.

Like the Dolce & Gabbana jeans she was wearing that night at Milk, which I recall I probably stared at for a little too long.

“How was work?” I asked her, although I wasn’t overly interested. The thing is, you know, it’s rude to not ask workaholics how work was, and Bette is a bit of that.

“It was fine,” she said, offering me her cigarette, which is her trying again to be funny, because she knows I hate tobacco. I shot her a look. “I sort of wish the opening was next week instead of tomorrow; I think a little panic would do me good at this point.”

“Well, okay, but I don’t,” I said.

“Don’t what? Wish the opening was next week?”

“Well,” I chuckled, “yeah, I don’t even have a dress yet.”

“Ah.” Bette grinned. “Are you my date, then, is that what you’re saying?”

I scoffed. “Who else would you take?”

She grinned again and took a drag off her cigarette.

“Bette!”

She changed tactics. “Have you noticed Andrea stopped visiting the gallery so much?”

I had noticed, actually, and was relieved, because if you ask me, just because Bette Porter sleeps with you once doesn’t mean you need to like, stalk her all around WeHo. For example, I only spend so much time with Bette because she’s slept with me a lot more than once and so I understand that I am more than a forgetful one-night stand, which is totally what Andrea was.

So, yes, I had noticed that Andrea didn’t seem to be attached to Bette’s ***** anymore, but what I said was, “No, I didn’t notice. What’s that about?”

“Well, I told her my girlfriend would be upset about it.”

Oh! “Oh.”

“I said, ‘I think Alice probably expects me not to sleep with other people.’”

Yeah, I did expect that! “Oh?”

“Yes.” Bette put out her cigarette and slung both hands casually into the pockets of her tailored navy pinstriped blazer. I stepped back a bit to process the fact that Bette Porter had called me her girlfriend.

“Let me get this straight,” I started and Bette shrugged. “You told Andrea that you and I are dating?”

“Right.”

This was going to sound dumb, but “Are we, then? Dating, I mean.”

“Well.” Bette smirked and then leaned her head closer to mine, whispering conspiratorially, “I think it would be really awkward if Andrea found out that we weren’t.”

“Oh!” I looked at her for a moment, dumbfounded. “So, we-”

“Alice.”

“What?”

“Let’s go back to my place.”

“Right.”

Bette, for some reason, refuses to refer to her house as what it really is-an art gallery. Seriously, I have trouble doing anything there because I’m always worried I’m sitting on some sort of sculpture or drying my hands on a ***** tapestry or something. It’s a two-bedroom, with the second bedroom converted into a study/guest room, which I can take full credit for. The guest room part, at least. When I met Bette, it was just a study, but when I spent the night there right after we first met, she went and converted it into a guest room.

Which I think is a really brilliant opening for me to tell the story of how Bette and I met and started dating, which is a story that is really only about a year old. But it counts, because I think nine or ten years down the line, it’s going to be one of my most important stories.