"Yes. What if." Lexie rubbed her eyes, using the heels of her hands. "And maybe the paint that smells like... well...like colored oil to me really smells like...like chocolate pudding to you that is, the smell I get when

I smell chocolate pudding."

"And why not?" Barbara propped herself onto an elbow, stuffing the pillow through the arch under her arm. "Why not?" she repeated, irritated at Lexie's smugness. "It's like your referring to gay clubs as depressing." Going on with an urgency to provoke: "Maybe what's gay for me is depressing for you."

"Here we go again," Lexie said, eyeing the bedstead as though addressing a third party.

When Barbara wanted to provoke laughter, or, for that matter, provoke anything, she'd tell Lexie she wanted to go to a gay club. Lexic might answer, "So go," to which Barbara would cry that she needed an escort. And Lexie would promptly ask Barbara please not to look at her because she wouldn't be seen dead in a gay bar,

"Scared?" Barbara's tone didn't skirt on sarcasm it climbed the highest peak of it.

"What of?" Lexie said. "So I don't like bars. You ever watch people in bars? It's hysterical. ceiving station full of exposed wires."

It's like a re-

"That's it!" Barbara said, bolting up in bed. have been shocked!"

"You

"Please," Lexie said, "I want a few more minutes of sleep. It's Sunday and I'm entitled."

The clock clicked, stapling the silence around them and Barbara felt hemmed in by it.

"Lexie, something's wrong with us, isn't there?"

"Yes. We're queer."

"Stop Joking! I mean there's something wrong between us. It's not the same anymore."