Carmen sits, legs tucked under her. Jenny’s computer is resting on a pillow on her lap but she’s stopped watching the footage. The screen saver has kicked on, and stayed on, for a long time. She sits quietly there, alone in the living room, in the warm dim light cast by lamps, and that is how Shane finds her.

She comes in, dark circles under her eyes, hair somehow more disheveled than usual, and she glares at Carmen. She doesn’t see the stacks of tapes covering the entire coffee table.

“Hey,” Carmen says it uneasily.

Shane doesn’t slow down. “Hi,” she says coldly, and walks toward her room.

“Shane, we need to talk.”

“No.”

She says it simply, but it sounds harsh, even to her. She’s been gone three days and she wants nothing more to sleep for eight or nine or fifty hours, and a shower, in that order. She doesn’t slow down.

“It’s important! Something’s happened.”

Carmen watches as Shane stops, waits a second before turning. She turns, and Carmen sees the hollows under her eyes, the fatigue there. “What!” She says in a voice that is very hoarse, yet very forceful. She stands there at the very edge of the room, in the hallway, not coming any closer.

Carmen is beautiful in the warm light, light that seems to be made just to flatter her golden skin. Her hair is down around her shoulders, and she is wearing a tank top and ratty shorts that rise high on her legs. It hurts Shane to look at her.

Carmen sighs, then bites her lip, and Shane starts to get genuinely worried. Someone died, she thinks. “What?” she asks in a slightly softer tone.

“Jenny found a camera in her room.”

Shane’s face crumples into confusion. She scratches the back of her head, blinking. “What?”

“Mark. He had cameras in every room but the bathroom. They’re gone now, and he’s gone.” She watches as shock dawns on Shane’s face. Breaking the news to Shane feels like a further violation, adding insult to Mark’s injury.

“He was filming us?”

“Yeah,” Carmen says. “Jenny called me. We called Joyce Wischnia. Then we called the police. He came home while the police were in his studio. Joyce scared the piss out of him. We took all the tapes, and the police took his computers. She forced him to sign a contract stating that if he ever releases any of the footage, we can sue him.”

Shane stands there, looking rumpled and confused, as if she‘d just rolled out of bed. She sniffles, rubs her nose, and narrows her eyes. “Where’s Jenny?”

“She’s asleep. She has an early day tomorrow.” Carmen whispers it, and something about the simple kindness hurts Shane.

Right now, everything hurts Shane, her head and her heart and her mind.

“Um, Joyce said that every person who was in this house can file a class-action suit against him if we want. The police took some stuff but Jenny wanted to wait for you before deciding whether or not to press charges.”

“Fuck,” Shane hisses, the fricative hiss of the word harsh from her mouth. She stands there in the middle of the living room for a few seconds, then walks to the couch opposite Carmen and reluctantly sits. She puts her head down low, between her knees, as if dizzy, head tucked down.

Carmen bites her bottom lip and watches Shane with big eyes, glad Shane isn’t looking at her, because she would see the pain there, and the compassion.

Carmen has watched the living room footage, assuming nothing private would be on it. She was wrong. She can’t get images out of her head. The image of Shane fucking a flower delivery girl on the living room sofa is bad. The one of her telling Shane off over the Veronica Bloom thing is too, and she can‘t erase it from her mind. Still worse was after, later that night, the horrible vacuum in Shane’s eyes as she stared into space, smoking one cigarette after another. And the very worst was watching her beautiful face crumple, become wet with tears, seeing her thin back shake as she doubled over, sobs lost in the black and white pixelated hush of video.

Shane is sitting and looking at nothing in particular, trying to comprehend the things that Mark saw. Then she snaps out of whatever mental fog she was in upon entering the house, and she looks up at Carmen with an alert, feral quality that scares Carmen. “Where is he?”

“Jail still, probably.” And given the set of Shane’s face, Carmen is glad, because Shane scares her.

Shane pulls her legs up to her, holds them while staring into space, then looks at the tapes on the table. There are so many. She thinks back to all the things she has done when she thought she was in private - fucking, sleeping, eating, shitting, getting high. Crying. Shit.

“These are the ones from your room,” Carmen says, setting the laptop aside and pushing a certain stack of tapes toward her.

Shane eyes them without touching them. She can see that Mark has neatly labeled every one, with the initials S.M. and a date and time. The dates go back almost two months.

She looks up at the ceiling, wide eyes darting around the edges of the room. Carmen knows what she is thinking. She has had the exact same train of thought, almost fifteen hours ago, thinking up and down, back into time, wondering what moments were stolen.

“Where?”

“In the light.” Carmen points to the ceiling. “The light in your room, and the one in Jenny’s. There was one in the kitchen. And one there on top of the lamp.” Carmen points.

“How do we know there aren’t more?” Shane asks in a deep, raspy voice. She is thinking of the truckload of coke she has shoveled up her nose in the last month, about the police with Mark’s computer.

“The police came in, and they had these devices to detect cameras. They got them all.”

“What about the bathroom?”

“There weren‘t any there.”

Jesus, Shane thinks. At least that stuff wasn’t recorded for posterity.

“So, what happens now?”

“It’s up to you and Jenny. They’re charging him with unlawful use of a recording device, and he’ll probably be out on bail tomorrow. Joyce said something about you guys being able to file a civil suit for damages, in addition to criminal charges. You need to talk to her, because I didn’t catch all of what she was saying.”

Shane nods, once, then twice, not looking at Carmen. She is thinking backward, of all the private things stolen, now sitting on this table for anyone to see. They sit like that for a long time.

Then she looks at Carmen and her eyes are cold. “Why are you here?”

Her tone makes Carmen flinch, and Shane watches this infuriating, beautiful creature who has no game whatsoever, no defenses. Shane swallows a moment’s anger. Carmen sees the gentle bob of her throat, the anger in her eyes.

“Because Jenny had to go to bed. And I wanted to tell you, when you got back. We tried calling. Your cell was off.”

Shane looks at her. “Well I’m here. You can go home now.”

“Shane-”

“I thought you weren’t gonna kiss my ass forever.” She says coldly, eyes glittering. “Why are you still here?”

“Because I worry about you.” Carmen says, wincing at the memory of her unfair tirade, her voice faltering, but her stance proud and strong, chin tilted up. “If you want to punish me for that still, then fine. I’m sick of taking your shit. But it doesn’t change the fact that I do care.”

Shane stands up but doesn’t move from the spot, looking at the walls around her with an expression like disgust. She stands, hair messy but lipstick perfect, mouth open, indefinable processes going on beyond her inscrutable eyes.

“By the way.” she says icily, her tone causing Carmen to brace. “Veronica Bloom is not some chick I fucked. She was my boss. I walked out when she demanded I get in bed with her and watch a movie. She thought since she was paying me, she could own me. I’m no one’s whore. I told her to fuck off. So deal with it.”

“I have.” Carmen says quietly, and Shane turns to look at her. “I’m sorry. Jenny told me who she was. I jumped to conclusions. I totally owe you an apology.”

Something in Carmen’s voice causes Shane to lose it. The compassion, or the free admission of guilt. Something in the utter lack of defenses the girl has, the very thing that was pissing her off only seconds ago. Shane sits down, and puts her head down between her knees, as if she’s dizzy. Carmen watches, unsure of what to do.

“I’m sorry.” Shane whispers, her voice rough, so quietly Carmen can barely hear. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

Her voice rises at the end of her sentence, telling Carmen that she’s starting to cry. She sniffles, but she doesn’t let herself sob. Carmen feels the image of Shane crying alone, burned into her mind like an afterimage superimposed over the reality of right now, and she knows what to do.

She slowly stands up, walks around the coffee table, and sits down close to Shane. She puts her arm around her, biting her lip when she feels the sweet warmth radiating from under her shirt.

Shane doesn’t move, every muscle is held tight, and even her breath stops.

“What do you mean you were trying to do the right thing?” Carmen whispers it, afraid the question will scare Shane off. I’m such a fool, she thinks, knowing that Shane can and likely will just hurt her again, but also knowing that there is no way she can move from this spot.

Shane has started to breathe again, but still she hides her face. Carmen wants her to sit up, suddenly wants to be able to see her face, but she knows to wait. She moves her hand very slowly on Shane’s back.

“I thought you’d be better off with Jenny. I thought...” Carmen hears her sniffle, and again she doesn’t move.

Carmen waits for her to finish, but she doesn’t.

“Jenny and I are over,” she says quietly.

Shane wants to look at her face, to search it for lies, but she doesn’t dare show her face. Because now her tears are coming, hot and fast.

Carmen watches as Shane’s hands move to the back of her head, through the thicket of her hair, and clutch there. She seems to be in pain.

“Why?” Shane hates herself the moment she says it, and she winces. “Fuck” she silently mouths into the airless space between her knees.

“It... it was mutual.”

They are both silent for a long time. Carmen raises her hand, hesitates, then touches Shane’s hair. So soft, heavy with some product, tangled, but soft. Shane feels lost under the weight of her compassion, and tries hard to breathe curled up on herself that way.

Then Carmen leans down, in much the same way, still stroking her hair, the feel of her fingers hypnotic. “Shane. Whether you want me to or not, I care about you. I want to be here for you. If that means you telling me what is going on, or not, I don’t care. I know I hurt you but I lashed out because I was hurt and I’m sorry. But I want you to know that you can trust me. Talk to me.”

She watches as Shane’s messy head bobs up and down. She feels a bit lighter inside at the acknowledgement. A start, at least.

Shane sniffles again, raises her head a little, elbows now on her knees, still hiding her face in her hands, still not looking at Carmen. “I’m sorry,” she repeats in a shaky voice that fluctuates wildly as she fights off tears. “By the time I realized...I thought it was the best thing I could do for you, tell you to hook up with Jenny. Cause I couldn’t give you...”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” Carmen whispers, taking Shane’s hand in her own. Her palm is wet with tears, and this exposes her face. But Carmen doesn’t look, instead leans close to Shane, smelling her shampoo and too many cigarettes, comforting but not invading. She presses her dry hands around Shane’s wet one.

“I wanted to,” Shane whispers, tears freely flowing. “I really did. And then I couldn’t handle it. And that was really lame. It was my fault.”

“No, Shane… It wasn’t your fault. People can’t help what they feel.”

She laughs bitterly, then stares into space. Only then does Carmen look at her. She sees empty eyes, skin wet with tears, dark circles.

“Are you okay?” She whispers. “Because you look like you’ve been through hell.”

“I’m...I’m exhausted.”

“Will you let me take care of you?” She curls her fingers more tightly around Shane’s hand. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, but I’d really like to do that right now.”

Shane nods, a barely perceptible movement of her head.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Earlier today,” Shane lies.

“Want me to make you something?”

Shane shrugs. “I guess. Cereal or something.”

Carmen pulls Shane to her side, presses a kiss into her messy hair, quickly, so as not to scare her away. Then she stands up.

She comes back with a bowl and spoon. Shane is sniffling, and has wiped the tears from her face. Carmen hopes this doesn’t mean she’s walling up again.

But when Shane looks up at her, she has eyes like a child, open and full of emotion, wildly green in the golden light. So deep Carmen feels she might be sucked right in. And her boyish beauty takes Carmen’s breath away.

She holds out the bowl and spoon, and when Shane starts eating, goes back to the kitchen. She wouldn’t want to have someone watching her eat, so she won’t do it to Shane.

She comes back with a glass of juice. She sits down and holds it as Shane finishes eating, not watching, just coexisting. When she hears the clink of Shane setting the spoon down, she takes the bowl and hands her the glass.

“Thanks,” Shane mumbles, watching her as she stands up and goes to wash the bowl.

The juice is so sweet it makes Shane wince, very cold, and she swallows it all, feeling less dead inside.

“Feel better?” Carmen asks, whispering.

She nods.

“You want me to run you a bath?”

Shane closes her eyes and shakes her head back and forth. “Sleep.”

“Okay.” Carmen takes the empty glass from her, hand, feeling her soft fingers surrender as Carmen pulls it away. “More?”

“No. Thanks.”

Carmen nods. “Okay.” She offers a hand and pulls Shane up, and walks just behind her, resisting the urge to touch between her shoulder blades.

Shane falls into bed gracelessly, shoes on and closes her eyes. A trickle of red seeps from her left nostril.

Carmen sees and her eyes widen a bit. “Shane.”

“Hmm?” Her eyes open, and fix on Carmen.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Hmm.” She knows immediately what Carmen is referring to. Shane sniffles and touches her nose. Carmen wonders how often this has happened lately. “Shit,” she says, when she feels the blood on her fingertips.

Carmen sits down on the bed, calmly hands her a tissue. She wipes off her fingers, then her nose. “Sit up,” Carmen whispers, and she does, holding her nose. Carmen moves the pillow down. “Now lay down.” The pillow ends just under her neck. “Tilt your head back.”

Shane wonders how Carmen knows this, but she leans back as told, sniffles, and again wipes her nose. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with the bloody tissue in her bloody hand, so she holds it with the other one, so Carmen can’t see. She suddenly feels filthy, nasty, diseased. But Carmen doesn’t see. She is gently removing Shane’s sneakers, then she moves back to the head of the bed and sits, stroking Shane’s hair back from her face. Shane closes her eyes and lets herself drift on the sweetness of the sensation.

“How’d you know that trick?” she asks, a minute later when the bleeding stops.

“My brother goes on these major coke benders from time to time,” Carmen whispers, without judgment, the soft slow stroking of her hand not faltering. Shane doesn’t comprehend how this can be, and she feels the sting of tears returning to her eyes.

They stay like that for a long time. Carmen forces herself to look away, because she doesn’t like the way looking at Shane feels, illicitly heady, like a drug. So damn good, better than it should be. Shane sniffles again, but her breathing slows and Carmen realizes that she will soon be asleep.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, to make you feel better?” She leans over and whispers it into the hair above Shane’s temple, watching as her eyes flicker but don’t open.

She sits, waiting for a second, then two, then ten. Shane doesn’t speak and Carmen watches, anger flaring in her.

Then her eyes open, all green-gold and hazel, following her as Carmen leans back and removes her hand. “Can you stay?”

Carmen nods, suppressing the urge to smile. “Yeah.”

Shane tugs, just a little, on her hand, like a child wanting to get ice cream, a desire so simple and naked, and Carmen realizes it is the only thing she’s ever really wanted from this woman.

Carmen lies down beside her, pulling the covers up over her own bare legs, resting her head against Shane’s side. She feels the sweet rush of being close to this woman again, of the scent of her clothes and her perfume and faint sweat beneath the cigarettes.

Shane doesn’t open her eyes, but she tangles her fingers in Carmen’s hair, idly stroking. She threads her fingers through from root to end, slowly, feeling the cool silk of it, fanning it out on her chest.

Carmen is half-asleep when Shane whispers “I don’t deserve this.”

“I think you do.” She murmurs, stating it as fact, not opinion.

It seems like hours later when Shane speaks again, quiet, almost ashamed. “I don’t know why.”

“Because I love you,” Carmen whispers sleepily. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here.”

Shane closes her eyes, thoughts slowing and thickening like syrup. She falls under, feeling the silken texture of Carmen's hair under her fingers, too exhausted to work through the massive architecture of complications filling her mind. She puts it away for later, and gives in to the cycle of breath and breath, sleeping.