Almost everyone had left, but still I sat, alone, always alone in this city, always eventually left -- left by Victoria, left by Ray, and now left by Ray the Second. I know he was conflicted -- if he left, that wouldn't be buddies; if he stayed, he would continue to give me the wrong idea as to the nature of his feelings for me. If he left, I would be left alone, completely alone -- alone in Chicago, alone in the bar, alone with Diefenbaker and the ghost of my father, alone with my thoughts and thwarted dreams, and hitherto known but not fully realized melodramatic temperament.

Regardless, he left.

I have even attempted to drown my sorrows in the most time-honored way, but American beer leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and anything stronger will find me unable to walk home later in the evening. Despite my bulk and heft, alcohol does affect me.

If I were any of my fellow officers of the law -- well, I am not precisely a fellow officer of the law, except in the strictest sense of the term, but I do work with them -- I would blame tonight's escapades on alcohol, walk into the 27th tomorrow cheery and clear-eyed and announce that if I'd done anything particularly silly the night before, would everyone please forgive me, as I'd imbibed too much and don't remember any of it.

But I must be honest -- with myself, with Ray. I owe our friendship that much, even if it disintegrates it.

When someone sits opposite me, I look up from the glass of water I am contemplating, expecting to see Dewey, or Lieutenant Welsh, or even Turnbull, perhaps recovered from his attempt at an Irish jig atop the billiard table. He might have been successful, had a large group of burly women not been intensely involved in a game at that time.

It's Stella Kowalski. I cannot keep the surprise out of my voice. "ASA," I say. My eyebrows have risen of their own volition; to cover this rudeness, I swipe my thumb over one eyebrow and push it back into place.

She doesn't smile at me; why would she? ÒStella,Ó she says curtly. ÒLetÕs not be silly.Ó

She has two glasses: one of a dark amber liquid and the other a martini glass of pale pink liquid. I inhale -- something with vodka, sweet almonds, exactly what I'd expect of her. The amber liquid is bourbon. Cheap. It smells as sweet as the vodka drink, without the peppery undertones.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" I ask her. "This is, of course, due mostly to your excellent work in front of the jury this morning. For them to return a verdict so quickly --"

"Please," she says, dismissing my compliments. "It was as much you and Ray's detective work and testimony --"

"Oh, no," I interrupt. "For without --"

"Constable," she says. This is the voice she always uses with Ray, exasperated, ready for a fight. "Please."

"Understood. My apologies." I'm not sorry, but she knows that; it's a courtesy only.

She leans over the table and lowers her voice. If my hearing was not so excellent, I would never have been able to understand her words.

"I heard you. You and Ray," she says.

My eyes immediately go to her face, but she isn't looking at me -- she's looking across the room, to where Ray and one of the burly billiard players are dancing; the singer is lamenting the torture of love, in Spanish, which I know Ray doesn't understand.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop." Her voice seems to get even lower, or perhaps the music gets louder. Ray's body moves easily in time with the beat, faster and faster. I take a deep breath. "I was in the ladies'. I --"

"I trust you'll keep our conversation to yourself? Ray wouldn't care to have my indiscretion spread around."

"Of course," she snaps. "For God's sake, Fraser --" Now she's looking at me. "I'm not a cruel woman."

"Except where Ray is concerned."

"Ray is a different story altogether."

"Mmm," I say.

"I admit, I'm -- surprised."

"Must we discuss this?" I look back down at my water. There is a fly floating in it, drowned. I push it to the side, and focus on breathing, moving past the ache in my chest. I've ruined everything and nothing will be the same again.

"Fraser..." Stella clears her throat. I watch her slim hand lift the bourbon; she pauses and I listen to her swallow, and when she replaces the glass, all the liquid is gone. "I am surprised. I read his signals the same as you."

And I hear in my head Ray's shocked, "What? Fraser, what? What? I am not -- I am a flirtatious person, Fraser, I like to be flirtatious, I am full of flirtatiousness. Whaddaya want from me here, I'm just -- we're just buddies! " and my own anguished, "Oh, Ray, I'm quite sorry --"

"Apparently he is naturally a flirtatious person." I am unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

When my eyes meet Stella's, hers are soft, and full of sympathy, exactly the opposite of what I had been expecting. She pushes the martini glass to me.

"He's always been friendly," she says, and, to my shock, she reaches out a hand and places it on mine, squeezing gently.

"He -- touches me," I say. My voice trembles, so I clear my throat and start again. "He stands too close. He hugs --"

I stop. I can't go on. I feel like the worst of fools.

"Drink," says Stella, and I lift the vodka drink, drain it all in one gulp. It burns my nose and my eyes begin to tear, and I feel it trace through my throat. I'll regret that, I know I will, but I -- I don't care.

I turn my eyes away from Stella, and they automatically search the room for Ray, who is now line-dancing with the three other people left at the bar -- one of the women, Lieutenant Welsh, and the bartender herself.

Stella's hand is warm and small, and a little damp. "Come on," she says. "I can tell you from years of experience -- what you need right now is to wash your face with cold water, and go eat some ice cream."

"Years of experience?" I say, and force my eyes away from Ray. She stands and pulls me along with her. "I never thought of you as the Sapphic type."

She smiles at me, and her whole face is transformed; I usually see her frowning, unhappy, scowling at Ray for a slight -- real or imagined -- or... anything.

"I have hidden depths," she says, and pulls me along. I see Ray out of the corner of my eye, staring after us, breaking away from the crowd of line-dancers.

"Ray is coming," I murmur to her. She rolls her eyes.

The more I think about it, the more I'd like a cold cloth on my eyes, just for a moment, to allow myself some darkness in which to -- breathe.

Stella pulls me into the women's lavatory. It looks the same as the men's, and I wonder why there's a distinction at all. Each lavatory only fits one person at a time; what would be the harm in letting people decide whether they'd like to urinate left or right?

I stifle a laugh as she runs water over a paper towel.

"Yes?" she says, turning.

"The complete ridiculousness of this situation," I say to her, unable to explain it in any more detail.

Someone bangs on the door. "Ray," says Stella and I at the same time. She smiles at me, holds out the towel. I stare at it for a moment, then realize that she means for me to press it to my face. I swipe it over my burning cheeks, and press it to my eyes.

"You'll get over it eventually," she says sympathetically. "Just pretend you were drunk. He's been there enough times; he'll understand."

"My fingers are numb," I say to her. "I am drunk."

"Lightweight," she says. Her fingers press the towel harder onto my eyes. The cold-wet feels wonderful, even though the paper is scratchy.

"Hey, what are you two doing?" demands Ray. His voice is muffled from behind the door. Stella pulls the towel off my eyes and winks at me, and -- perhaps if I hadn't drank the alcohol, I'd have understood what she meant to do before she did it, but I am surprised, I am surprised when she leans closer and kisses me. On my mouth. With her mouth.

I stand there stupidly for a moment, a second, and then I kiss her back. It's almost an automatic reaction. She smells like Ray -- they must use the same hair products. Her hair is sticky like his always is and, my hands push through the strands to her head and hold her to me.

I understand what she's doing -- and I don't... I don't condone it, but I am not against it either. Ray and I must be put back on equal footing, and whether she's doing this out of sympathy -- my mind immediately rejects pity -- for my situation, or revenge for herself upon Ray...

Her mouth is soft, tasting faintly of sour-sweet bourbon, and even more faintly of lipstick, and I believe she had some of the spicy wings Dewey had ordered, and several glasses of a sweet, light wine --

"Hey, what the fuck?" says Ray, and then the door opens, the hinges squeak, and we hear him again, louder: "What the fuck?"

I resist the urge to turn and admonish him for such language and let myself enjoy Stella's mouth on mine. Her tongue sweeps through my mouth, rubs against my teeth. I pull one of my hands out of her hair and use it to pull her body to mine -- and I do find myself actually enjoying our embrace, not simply tolerating it for the sake of Stella's... plan.

"Quit it!" yells Ray. "Quit it!"

Stella pulls away from me and smiles at me, and I again marvel at her beauty. I do see what attracted Ray to her.

"Ray, please," she says, in that voice, the one she always uses on him. No, Ray, I don't want to have supper with you; no, Ray, I don't want to go dancing; Ray, please stop calling me.

I can see Ray in the mirror behind Stella, flushed from exertion and alcohol, and he looks hurt.

"Stella, you got to be careful. You don't know Fraser," says Ray, and -- well, frankly, I am taken aback. "He's -- there's a thing -- it's -- it's not about you -- and --"

Ray sounds desperate. Stella laughs. "Close the door, Ray," she says, and she sounds so patronizing, and Ray's face -- what I can see of it -- falls -- and before I even hear the click of the door closing, my face is in Stella's hands again, and she's returned to kissing me.

I do not know what to think. I do not know what to do.

She continues kissing me for the few moments after the door closes, and then pulls away again.

"Well," she says, and takes a deep breath.

"Ah, yes." I clear my throat and step back, clasping my hands behind my back. "Er..."

She waves a hand at me. "Shh," she says. Then she giggles. "Ray doesn't know what he's missing. Phew." She leans against the sink. I listen to her breathe for a moment.

I clear my throat again. "Er -- when would be an appropriate time for us to exit?"

Stella eyes me appraisingly. "Come home with me," she says. "It would make Ray crazy. You can sleep on the couch if you want."

"I --" I don't feel in control of my actions. One alcoholic drink shouldn't affect me so; my hands feel shaky. My knees are weak. I try to catalogue my symptoms and diagnose the real underlying problem, but I can't; I get as far as my heart, pounding erratically, and wonder if I am going to die -- of humiliation, of rejection, of sadness.

No, I say to myself sarcastically. And then, in Ray's voice, Fraser, buddy, you just gotta find a girl and get yourself laid. That's all. You'll see. Just -- you get laid.

"Yes," I say. And then more firmly: "Yes."

Diefenbaker is with Francesca, and Inspector Thatcher closed the Consulate long ago, surely, as it's almost midnight. I have no duties, none except to Ray and myself, and I want -- I want to hurt Ray, I realize, just as much as he's hurt me tonight, first by telling me with his body that he was interested in my body, then by denying with words what he'd been saying physically, touching me, sniffing me, dancing with me -- and then by telling Stella --

Stella leaves without bidding anyone goodnight, and I follow suit, although it goes against -- well, everything. Tonight is a night for me to live against my grain.

It's the vodka, I tell myself. Be more American.

But I can't make myself believe it, not even when Stella and I are sitting in her car, and she's driving toward a part of the city I am almost completely unfamiliar with, not even when we are walking through her underground garage, not even when we are in the elevator, in the carpeted hallway, inside her apartment.

She's moved, since the last time I had cause to be at her domicile; this room is chrome and glass and a white leather couch, the room of someone never home.

There's a small smile on her face, it's been there since before we left the bar. For myself, I am frowning; I continue to replay the night's events over and over in my mind. Ray's closeness, my desire overwhelming, our confrontation. I always stop before I come to Stella -- these are two separate nights, in my mind. The first night begins with the conviction, the jury taking only an hour to find Louis Ryker guilty on all counts of rape and murder. The party, the dancing -- oh, the dancing.

I close my eyes and press my lips together.

"Fraser, here." Stella pushes a glass into my hand and I open my eyes. I drink it before I realize what it is -- gin. I choke a little, but swallow it all.

Stella is laughing at me.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I sit on her couch.

She sits down next to me; her glass is still almost full. "I thought it would help you sleep," she says, and smiles again.

Stella is nothing like Victoria, not in any way; they are opposites in all. Stella is small and slim and blonde where Victoria was tall and statuesque and brunette. Stella is forthright and honest where Victoria was a liar and accomplished manipulator. Victoria wanted to steal her wealth and power; Stella earns it.

Stella is everything Victoria is not, as is Ray. I am surrounded with people who remind me, in part, of what I strive for. And yet I am unhappy.

"Oh, Fraser." She sighs, and I realize that I am kissing her, that underneath my fingertips is the skin of her leg, no, the rough texture of pantyhose, under that the heat of her leg, her neck soft and smooth under my palm.

We move, together, until we're lying down, and she's struggling with my uniform, with the lanyard, the Sam Browne, the holster, the buttons; she slaps away my hand when I try to help her. I have a clear image in my head of a Stella from years ago, helping Ray out of his blue uniform, with its brass buttons and flat hat and unflattering pants, and gasp.

I return to kissing her, focusing only on that, moving when she pushes me, when the cool air of her living room wafts over my bare arms, chilling my sweat. The buttons on her shirt press into my skin as she pulls off my undershirt, and I move my fingers to them.

She gets there before me and rips, pulls her shirt and bra up over her head. I press my lips to her throat, blindly, open my mouth; I can't tell if I'm about to cry, or find myself overcome with passion.

"Please," she hisses, and thrusts her hips into mine. Her fingers scrabble at the fastening of my trousers, and I move my hand to help her.

I'm hard -- I -- I want this, and it feels strange, to want someone who isn't Ray so desperately.

Her fingers are cool around my heated flesh; my trousers are caught on my boots. Her skirt is twisted. Her pantyhose only come up to her thighs, and when I move my fingers, they slide right into her; she's not wearing any underclothes.

Or she took them off already.

She's wet, so wet, and I am helpless to resist -- not that I would have, not that I could stop this now. I bring my hand to my mouth, between our mouths, and lick her taste off me, and move down her body. This is so familiar and yet not; she is shaped the same as Victoria, and yet not. She smells deep and rich, like expensive perfumes and wines, and sweat and tastes the same, and cries out when I stab my tongue deep inside her. I rub her with my fingers; she is so small, only two fit inside her. She's rough inside, like sandpaper almost, and she squeezes my fingers and moans my name.

"Fraser."

As I lick her, I think of Ray, what he would think if he walked in on us like this; am I doing this for my own revenge? Am I placating myself with the wife since I cannot have the husband? They are blonde and they smell the same, all the way underneath; they are like twins to my senses if not to my mind.

Stella is shaped differently from Ray.

She shudders underneath my, still moaning my name, and I think, defiantly, See what you are missing, Ray? and she comes, spills wet over my fingers and tongue, and suddenly my need is thrown into sharp relief, and I groan as I move away from her, the leather of the couch chafing against me. I'm not leaking, I'm not even as hard as I was earlier, when Ray and I were crowded into the hallway by the lavatories and I said, "Ray, I cannot help but notice that you --"

"Hey," says Stella. She pulls my face to hers by way of a tight grip on my hair, licks herself off my mouth, licks into my mouth, and with a thrust of her hips, is on me, rubbing wetly against me, moving her body underneath mine until I am on her, moving with her, inside her, thrusting.

I close my eyes and let my face drop into her neck. She is doing most of the work; I am not feeling urgent, I am just... enjoying being held.

I am so pathetic.

She slides her hand down my back, presses a finger into me gently, and then harder, and then another. Her hand is wet, her fingers slip in easily, as my own have so many times, and I find myself thrusting down against her in earnest, wanting this, wanting to come, wanting to orgasm with her smell around me and on me -- Ray's smell, but not, Stella's own, I'm enjoying this, I want this, I wish my boots were off so I could get purchase, my pants somewhere else, not my knees --

I take hold of one of her legs and push it up to her chest, and move on her purposefully -- I know how to do this, I am aware of what feels good, and her fingers push into me more, slide out, push in, in rhythm with my thrusts.

When I orgasm, I am thinking of Ray, of his smile, and the way he bumps my hip with his when we walk, but I am with Stella.

I collapse onto her, sweaty, itchy, uncomfortable -- and she hums with pleasure. When I look up at her, she is smiling, and she sighs.

"That is what I needed," she says, and stretches underneath me. I move, quickly, getting out of her way. I trip over my own knees and trousers. Her eyes are closed and her legs are spread lewdly; I cast my eyes away from the sight.

"The bathroom is to your left," she says, and sighs again, and I move quickly, pulling up my trousers, almost running.

I wash my face -- yes, the application of cold water makes me feel better. A quick search yields a clean cloth, which I use to wash myself; still, these trousers will have to be dry-cleaned before I can wear them again.

I can hear Stella moving around. I lean over and turn on the bath water, warm, not scalding, with a liberal application of the salts on the side of the tub.

I open the door, wishing for my shirt, feeling sensitized to everything. Stella is wearing a satiny robe, holding her glass of gin. She looks over my shoulder.

"It's warm," she says, and I smile at her. "Is that for me?"

"Ah... yes." I pause. "We didn't... um..."

"What? Protection? I'm clean, and -- you know. On the pill." She lifts up a salmon-colored shoulder and lets it drop. "Fraser..."

"No -- thank you. I had a quite -- ah. Enjoyable time." I don't know how to stand, where to put my hands, what to say, if it's all right to look at her.

"Repeat after me: I was drunk. I don't remember." She giggles girlishly. Her hair is mussed, out of place, and her lipstick smeared. She looks almost debauched.

"I was drunk," I say softly. "I don't remember."

"I called you a taxi," she says. "I know you like to walk, but it's late."

"Yes," I agree. "It's late."

She leans forward, teeters on her tip-toes, and brushes a kiss over my forehead. "I'm sorry, Fraser, I'm so sorry. For what it's worth..."

"It's not worth anything," I reply, and force myself to smile at her once again before leaving.

I have the driver leave me a few blocks from the Consulate, but pay him as though he took me the entire way. The walk does me good, the fresh air clears my head, and when I arrive, I drink three large glasses of water before taking a shower.

The entire night feels like a dream, fuzzy around the edges; I am once again reminded of Victoria, and the time I spent with her at Fortitude Pass, how after all this time, the memories I have are not of the time itself, but memories of memories, faded, dramatized, perfected in my mind.

I don't sleep, just lie on my cot and stare at the ceiling, and think about what I want from life. Do I want to stay with Ray? Can I really leave -- now? Would it look like running away? Isn't that what it would be?

I come to no conclusions, and when it's finally time for me to get out of bed and walk Dief and head over to the 27th, I still have no conclusions, no thoughts on what I should do.

Despite copious scrubbing, I still stink faintly of Stella; Diefenbaker frowns at me throughout our walk, and although I buy him a doughnut, he refuses to accompany me to the precinct.

"Heya, Fraser," says Ray when I enter, and I force a smile to my face.

"Good morning, Ray!" I reply jovially. I am thinking: I slept with your wife.

"You look good," he says, and eyes me critically.

"Ah, Ray. The key to surviving inebriation is to avoid the effects of dehydration -- that's all a hangover is, after all." I lean against his desk.

"You..." He eyes me. "Inbreeding, huh?"

"Inebriation, Ray," I say. "Excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages, usually --"

"Yeah, you were inbriated last night, huh?" He looks skeptical. I think of Stella: Repeat after me...

"I rarely consume alcoholic beverages, Ray, and last night I had --" I stop, think. One sip of cold, watery American beer; the almondy-tasting vodka; gin. "Three drinks."

"Three drinks, huh?" Now Ray is grinning.

"Yes, Ray. I must confess, I'm rather a lightweight when it comes to alcoholic beverages. And..." I pause. "I do fear I might have acted rather... oddly."

"Oddly."

"Yes, oddly. I'm afraid I don't recall much until Stella led me out --" Of her apartment. "-- and put me in a taxi."

Ray looks relieved. "Nah," he says, and slaps a file folder against his hand. "You were just you, Fraser, a complete freak the whole night, sitting by yourself at a table, watching us all have fun."

The smile never leaves my face. "I'm relieved to hear that, Ray."

"Yeah," he says. "Okay! So today look what we got! We got this guy down at the bus station saying he seen not one, not two, but three guys off the FBI most wanted list. What're the odds, huh? And -- hey, where's the wolf?"

"Oh," I say, as I follow him out of the squad room. "Diefenbaker has chosen to stay home today."

"Okay," he says. "Okay, let's get at this, it's at the docks. Maybe we'll get some lunch or something --"

We get into the GTO, and I think: I was drunk, I don't remember

But I do remember, and I wasn't drunk, and I feel... I feel as though it's time for me to return to Canada.