“Why?” Bette spit out. “It’s the truth.”

“Now, look,” Kit was saying, her voice getting progressively louder. She pointed at Bette and swayed drunkenly, the drink in her hand sloshing around and spilling. “If it’s such an issue for you, little sister, then why’d you come in the first place?”

The silence stretched forever, it seemed. It was a good question, and the reporter in me wanted to know. The other part of me, of course, wanted to leave.

“I don’t know,” Bette said finally. “I guess I keep hoping you’ll be different.”

Then Kit said, “This is me,” and she spread her arms, seemingly to accentuate the “this is me” assertion, but in doing so, she seemed to forget about the full drink in her hand and the person (me) standing to the left of her, and before I could move out of the way, she’d gone and dumped the entire contents of the glass all down the front of my t-shirt and jeans.

“*****!” I cried.

“Oh, Kit,” Bette muttered, frustrated. She grabbed a napkin from the bar. It took Kit a moment or two to register what had happened, but when she did, her glazed over eyes looked apologetic enough.

“*****, I’m sorry,” she said ruefully as Bette dabbed at my t-shirt. I tried to hold it away from my skin, but I couldn’t really do the same for my jeans. *****, this was uncomfortable.

“You should be,” Bette mumbled, getting more napkins.

“It’s okay, it’s clear, it’s not gonna stain or anything,” I said lamely. I looked up just in time to see Kit stumble toward the bar for more napkins, but *****, she was drunk, and she went down with a thump, her glass falling with her but (thankfully) not breaking.

I crouched down to help her up. “Oh, *****,” I said. Bette grabbed my shoulder, pulling me back.

“Leave her,” she said softly.

“Oh, come on, I know you’re upset with her, but-”

“Alice,” Bette said in a careful tone. “She’s… she’s passed out.”

I looked. Sure enough, Kit Porter’s eyes were closed and her mouth was open and she was dead to the world. I winced. “*****. Are you sure she’s not-”