"Just some questions."
She rose and limped somewhat unsteadily into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "The sofa changes into a bed if you're too horny to make it back to the bedroom."
He thought she was joking but when she returned with a full pint of vodka, he realized she was serious. She twisted the cap from the bottle and held it out to him. "Just consider you got lucky tonight."
"You're something else, Ms. Larkin."
She shrugged as she plopped back into her chair, wincing. She opened and closed her incredibly long legs with a flash of thigh, flipping over her robe, and exposing her knee. She began to examine the wound. It was clean but showed fresh blood, and the abrasion looked painful.
"You should have had the medic take a look at that."
"Couldn't. I peed my pants down there and he would have seen it. I suppose you knew that, too." She looked up at him. He hadn't. "Then I slipped trying to rub mud on my pants to cover it up. God," she added, "wouldn't that be a hoot for the boys?" She lifted her glass and took two gulps, winced again, rubbed her mouth and closed her eyes.
"Do you always buy your booze in pint bottles?" Dean asked, remembering Fitzgerald's purchase.
"I like to finish 'em. A fifth would knock me on my ass. I wouldn't be any good in bed." She examined the empty. "A friend bought me the vodka. I only buy whiskey." She stared at him. "So, what will it be?"
Dean took a deep breath. "Lydia, I'm married. I didn't come here for sex."
"Like marriage is a big deal?"
"Happily married." Lydia Larkin continued to stare, then shrugged and began filling her glass. "Don't you think you've had enough?" he asked. She glared at him but stopped pouring. She lolled her head back and closed her eyes.
"Don't give me that 'happily married' bullshit. Been there, done that." She waited for him to comment but he remained silent. "Seven blissful years. We were so damned settled it was a given we'd be holding hands in our wheel chairs. The only question was who would croak first." She opened her eyes and looked over at Dean. "Then one day I found lipstick on his clothes. Not even on his collar-on his shorts, where there's absolutely no reason for lipstick to ever, ever be. Bang! End of bliss, end of the world." She paused, as if waiting for a comment, but he gave none. She tossed her head back and laughed. "I cleaned out our bank accounts and wrapped the withdrawal slips in the same pair of shorts and pinned it to his pillow with a steak knife and took off. No return address, nothing. God, that was nearly ten years ago!"