Bernadette?

He puts his arm around her and pulls her body to his then buries his face into the back of her neck and breathes in the smell of her hair — a mix of lavender shampoo and barsmoke. Their lungs rise and fall in time, a lover’s duet. Outside the birds chirp their hellos and a truck sounds its backing-up beeps. The day greets them with a mixture of curious surprise and confusion.

The shade is slightly drawn and through the narrow opening he watches a squirrel tightrope across the telephone wire. He thinks to himself for a minute and a smile she can not see graces his lips.

“Last night was really great. I’m not just saying that because we had sex — although that was great too! But getting to know you, just talking. I feel like I’ve known you for a long time, and… well, at the risk of sounding foolish, I really like you, Bernadette.”

Her throat is parched and she has not yet opened her eyes fully, thinking this will somehow keep the headache at bay, although it’s clearly not working. She regrets taking that last shot and vows to never let this happen again. Memories of the night before trek through her brain, stumbling awkwardly you might say. Her voice straddles irritation and mirth as she turns to her new lover and asks, “Who the fuck is Bernadette?”