“Doesn’t mean a thing,” she said. “It goes on forever. Where one stops another begins.” She looked around The Cellar with Laura following her gaze. “I know most of the girls in here,” she said. “I’ve probably slept with half of them. I’ve lived with half of the half I’ve slept with. I’ve loved half of the half I’ve lived with. What does it all come to?” She turned to Laura who was caught with her fascinated face very close to Beebo’s. She started to back away but Beebo’s arm around her waist tightened and kept her close. “You know something, baby? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You don’t like me, and that doesn’t matter. Someday maybe you’ll love me, and that won’t matter either. Because it won’t last. Not down here. Not anywhere in the world, if you’re gay. You’ll never find peace, you’ll never find Love. With a capital L.” She took a drag on her cigarette and let it flow out of her nostrils. “L for Love,” she said, looking into space. “L for Laura.” She turned and smiled at her, a little sadly. “L for Lust and L for the L of it. L for Lesbian. L for Let’s—let’s,” she said, and blew smoke softly into Laura’s ear. Laura was startled to feel the strength of the feeling inside her. _It’s the whiskey_, she thought. _It’s because I’m tired. It’s because I want Marcie so much. No, that doesn’t make sense._ She caught the bartender’s eye and he fixed her another drink. Beebo’s arm pressed her again. “Let’s,” she said. “How about it?” She was smiling, not pushy, not demanding, just asking. As if it didn’t really matter whether Laura said yes or no. “Where did you get that ridiculous name?” Laura hedged. “My family.” “They named you _Beebo_?” “They named me Betty Jean,” she said, smiling. “Which is even worse.” “It’s a pretty name.” “It’s a lousy name. Even Mother couldn’t stand it. And she could stand damn near anything. But they had to call me something. So they called me Beebo.” “That’s too bad.” Beebo laughed. “I get along,” she said. The bartender set Laura’s glass down and she reached for her change. “What’s your last name?” she said to Beebo. “Brinker. Like the silver skates.” Laura counted her change. She had sixty-five cents. The bartender was telling a joke to some people a few seats down, resting one hand on the bar in front of Laura, waiting for his money. She was a dime short. She counted it again, her cheeks turning hot. Beebo watched and began to laugh. “Want your dime back?” she said. “It’s your dime,” Laura said haughtily. “You must have left home in a hurry, baby. Poor Laura. Hasn’t got a dime for a lousy drink.” Laura wanted to strangle her. The bartender turned back to her suddenly and she felt her face burning. Beebo leaned toward him, laughing. “I’ve got it, Mort,” she said. “No!” Laura said. “If you could just lend me a dime.” Beebo laughed and waved Mort away. “I don’t want to owe you a thing,” Laura told her.