I must be incredibly stupid. Or merely a *****.

Both are too simple as explanations. So I sit for another ten minutes or so before pulling down the windows, feeling the night air with obscene amounts of recall that memory stings my eyes. My nose begins to hurt from the effort of preventing any tears.

I remember why I am awake, staring at my house in the chill of twilight air. The light in the bedroom suddenly turns on and I see the shadow of a figure swaying in lethargy, running a hand through her curls.

Bette had a proclivity for drinking warm milk when she couldnt sleep. In a show of habit, here I am, awake with her.

~*~*~*~

She would take my thigh, her hands lingering as though to hang on to dreams, to sleep, before her eyes would open and drink the sight of me.

Babe, she would start and my lips would cover hers, so that in silence, she would know that everything was enough. That her waking was enough, that her sprawled on the sheets was no mere gift.

Cant sleep, T, I would tell her. Stay here. My lips would travel to her forehead, taking the quest of worship as she remained listless. Her hand would go limp before I smile and walk to the kitchen, drinking the smell of her amidst carton and milk.

How I trace memory like a sketch over this canvass Ive already painted on with dark, regretful, immoral colors!

~*~*~*~

The light in the hallway turns on. I can imagine the kitchen resounding with the suck and blow of a refrigerator being opened. The carton is a weight above her as she drinks to the dregs, as though searching for the last drop of an immense, irreconcilable past. Then I see her disappear under the counter, falling under that weight, slowly too, with the dagger of conscience. I have a hand on the car door, ready to get out.

But as always, before my mind even begins to comprehend her apparent grief, Bette picks herself up again, a hand on her forehead, her fingers fumbling for napkins inside a drawer.

~*~*~*~

I cannot imagine any more. She would have taken me from behind, kissing my neck and grabbing the carton with playful luster, telling me, Give me that. Thought I was sleeping, werent you? Her lips would have been sweeter than any wine kept in a cellar. Playful in a kitchen that held not only the taste of food and wine but also, the taste of sweat, sweet or salty depending on the particular province it had been picked.