They were quiet for a while, sipping their drinks and smoking, Bart’s leg draped over Bettina’s. Two empty champagne bottles lay on top of the bedsheets, dripping out their dregs onto the purple silk and creating perfect dark circles.
‘Wouldn’t it be awful,’ said Bart, eventually, ‘if we ended up hating each other?’
‘Oh, I would hate that,’ said Bettina.
‘You would hate the hate?’
‘Yes, I’d abhor it. You’re my absolute favourite person.’
‘Same,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am my absolute favourite person.’
‘Bart!’ She nudged him with her elbow, causing his drink to slosh inside the glass. ‘You pretend you’re joking but you aren’t really.’
‘I was joking,’ he said. ‘Possibly.’ He puffed on his cigarette with little smirk creases along the side of his mouth. ‘In any case, I fucking adore you and if things ever soured between us I think a part of my soul would shrivel up. The scant ember of optimism in my heart would go out and I’d become an altogether bleaker human being.’
‘Likewise,’ said Bettina. ‘I would become a crone, living in the shadows. A hag. I’d never be invited to parties.’ She pulled a sad face and he laughed. ‘We must promise to be kind to each other, always,’ she continued. ‘Kind and tolerant. And we mustn’t be dreadful hypocrites about everything.’
‘No,’ agreed Bart. ‘And we must always try to have fun. Because otherwise, what’s the point?’
‘Cheers to that.’
They clinked glasses and drank.
‘Cheers to the queers,’ said Bettina.
‘Hurrah for the inverts!’ said Bart.
They splurted out laughter.
‘I love that we’re funny,’ said Bart. ‘It’s my favourite thing about us.’
‘Me too,’ said Bettina, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘And I love that I’m the funnier one.’ She turned onto her side, as did he, wiggling his behind into the dip of her crotch. He grabbed her arm and wrapped it around himself. ‘You be the big spoon.’