Last night Susan and I watched a VHS copy of Murder on the Orient Express with Clarke. Clarke had gotten very drunk. Susan and I spent the duration of the film switching between watching the screen and watching Clarke. He got pretty animated in trying to figure out the guilty party. Ingrid Bergman or Sean Connery?
"You should cut back on the alcohol and cigarettes," Susan said to me later, in my darkened bedroom, as we tried to fall asleep.
I laughed. "What? You think just 'cos I let you sleep in my bed you can tell me how to live?"
"Let me?" she joked. "Yes."
"See, sex always costs something."
"Sure does. Now pay up."
"I don't think so." I shifted onto my back and opened my eyes. I tried to make out the shape of the ceiling fan. One shade of black against another. "It's so weird about the Trees."
"Don't!" said Susan. "I liked the sex talk better."
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