"So, I should say to her that I know she thinks I'm a bad woman. But if I say it, she'll obviously deny it, won't she? She will. She'll say she doesn't think so at all when she really does. And so if I say it-- Say, I do, then I'll be a bad woman with all the bad thoughts in my head. So either way, if I say it or not, I'm a bad woman. And she gets away without saying it and really snaring me into saying it. And you see how she gets away? She gets away by being a good woman that way. And now she has all the reason to avoid me. She already does but now she has a reason. Do you see where it's going? That's why I won't say anything. It's all already understood, really. It's very clear, believe me", she ranted on and on while Macey opened the window to let the smoke out.

"I think you're exaggerating, Betsie. You're overthinking it all. You sound crazed up when you do it", Macey replied, opening a can of beans with all the effort it takes to open a can of beans.

"I'm not. I really am not. You've got to see it", Betsie was on edge, working her way through her fiftieth cigarette of the day.

"Look now, Betsie, I do see it. I do see how she avoids you. But that's because she's on this righteous high horse of hers. And that's where she stays while looking down on all of us. It's not about you. It's not that personal", Macey couldn't get the can to open.

She moved to a counter and started looking for a screw driver.

"Have you seen her attitude? Have you seen how she talks to me? It's different from how she talks to all the other girls. She clearly has it in her head against me", Betsie pushed the stray strands of her chocolate hair behind her ear.

The open window was now rattling. It was quite a windy day. And the high rise apartment seemed to be catching such nice sun and wind.

"Look, Betsie, you're letting her get to your head too much. What's she matter anyway? Just forget about her", Macey couldn't find the screw driver anywhere.

"Now that's just sweeping it all under a carpet. And I hate carpets, Macey. I can't stand her look. The way she rolls her eyes and all that. God! That damned bitch!"

"Language, Betsie", Macey said, struggling with the can like her life depended on it.

Betsie let out a puff of smoke. She couldn't stand how upright Macey could be.

"I'm telling you, Macey, one of these days, I'm really going to do her in. And I won't have a regret about it whatsoever", Betsie put out the last of her cigarette on the ashtray.

"Oh my god, this can", Macey couldn't see why the can was so impossible to open.

"Oh, for gods sake, pull the pin!", Betsie yelled, getting up and walking over to Macey, "You're holding it upside down, you dumb woman. Pull the goddamned pin, for gods sake!"

Having discovered her ignorance, Macey was all eyes. She couldn't have imagined this profound turn of events.

"Did you know what she did last week? At dinner? At Homer's patio", Betsie swung the screw driver around, checking if it was a worthy murder weapon.

"At dinner? Oh goodness, I was so drunk!", Macey barely avoided the screw driver.

She ducked her way out of Betsie's lethal swings and went over to the coffee table with her open can of beans and a spoon. She'd almost lost her appetite.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"You were, weren't you? Well, she started on about women being this way and that. Tan skin, fair face, long hair, ideal, pure women. And I just sat their gaping at her dumb face. She's so damn proud of herself. She was clearly just shitting on all of us."

"She says that once in a while. I think she does", Macey's attention was now dedicated to her rambling.

"Well, I wish she wouldn't. One of these days, I'm telling you, Macey. One of these days, I really am going to do her in", Betsie was pissed and the furniture was now in danger from her screw driver.

"You shouldn't let her get under your skin. Just never hear her when she opens her mouth", Macey busied herself with the beans.

"You know, Macey, it's not that I have to hear her or see her looking at me. I don't know. That's not what brings out the worst in me. It's that I'm on her point. She puts me on a pedestal when really, all everyone is thinking is the same as what I'm saying. No really, you and Homer, and everyone else in that room had the same bull to say",

Betsie was getting riled up again.

"I don't know about that Betsie. I was very drunk, I'm telling you. I don't really know what I was thinking", Macey answered, relishing the beans as if they'd descended from heaven.

"That's the problem with you lot. You're always so damn drunk to think anything", Betsie put down the screw driver and began searching for the smoke.

All this rambling was beginning to get to her.

"Well, tell you what, Betsie, maybe you should try drinking a little when everyone else is drunk. God, that reminds me. Did you see Homer's wine cellar. God, he's like a rich person, isn't he?", Macey reflected, still mostly occupied by the beans.

"That's because he is", Betsie answered shortly.

She finally found a pack of cigarette. It was crumpled beyond recovery. And she discovered one cigarette in it. She found it depressing but lit it anyway.

"You know, I got a letter from back home. Leslie wrote. And she never writes", Betsie began to wonder where she'd put the letter.

She'd quite obviously lost it.

"And Rachel called me up just the other day wondering if I was gonna be visiting anytime soon. I said I will. I mean what else could I say? I said I will", Betsie was half lost in thought.

"Wonderful, isn't it?", Macey had no clue who Leslie or Rachel were.

"It is. It certainly is", Betsie took a deep drag of the cigarette, "You know what the problem is, Macey? It's that I'm the only one freaking out when there's quite clearly a problem. You and Homer and that damned bitch and everyone else loves to live in their perfect little fishbowl. God, you're all so dumb, I could almost puke."

Betsie's tone changed so suddenly Macey was lost for words. She kept eating her beans ever so slowly.

"And if someone points out to you how terribly dumb you are, you know what you call that person? You know, Macey? A bad woman!", Betsie began laughing, throwing her head back and all.

She didn't let the cigarette go out.

Macey lifted her head to catch a peek of Betsie's situation. She thought Betsie was beyond saving. It's hard to like people like Betsie.

"You're so goddamned dumb that you haven't got half an inch of a brain in there. You all think you're so hip. Oh good Lord! If only you were that hip! You're just idiots. Idiots doing normal stupid things. And you know why you're never going to grow out of it? Because that's perfection. In this stupid world where people as shallow as you, Macey, and that dumb blonde bitch, and Homer, exist. In this world of stupid wine cellars and drunk idiots who can't think, you know what I think, Macey? In this world, normal is perfection. That's why you'll never grow out of it. You're just that damn normal."

"Goodness, Betsie, did you know that was my last can of beans?", Macey stood up having wiped the can clean.

"Oh, you don't say?", Betsie walked over to check, quickly changing gears.

"Oh, hell! I haven't even got food for tonight. Say, Betsie, why don't we go out? To eat, tonight. I'm so out of food. Do you think that's silly? I think that's silly", Macey began rummaging through the cupboards of the open kitchen.

"Oh, I sure do. I think it's silly. Beyond silly, really. It's quite a huge joke, all of it", Betsie answered, her cigarette was on it's last legs.

"Right?! Who runs out of beans? I should call someone, don't you think?", Macey was fitting herself into every cabinet to get a thorough look at the pantry.

"Oh? Who'll you call?", Betsie asked carelessly, putting the cigarette out on the window sill, feeling the wind.

"Homer, maybe. D'you think he'll mind? I don't want to call him for beans, for goodness sake. D'you think he'll mind, Betsie?", but Macey didn't get an answer.

She lifted her head out of the cabinets and searched through the room.

It was all at rest, except the window that stood ajar and the butt of a cigarette left on the sill as a memento mori.