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Betts lives alone. No husband to tend to or to worry herself sick over when he takes ill, she's free at any time of the day Janine comes over to talk. Talk, drink, sit cross-legged on her bed until Betts gets bored of that and lounges back, propped up by one elbow, her long dark hair streaming and pooling over her shoulders.
Sometimes tea, something to soothe Janine's nerves. Little gold-rimmed teacups adorned with flowers—a different set each visit, Betts's collection. Sometimes wine, which Janine usually abstains from but sometimes she says she feels she needs it and lets Betts pour her half a glass, no more. Sometimes just watching Betts drink. Wine dark on her mouth before she wipes it off. Glass starting to tip in her hand as she leans back; Janine watches the last few drops drip, gather, cling, too little left to really risk spilling.
When Janine leaves Betts raises the glass to her lips, watches the thin strip of hallway as the door swings shut, do her eyes find Janine's through the crack, does Janine smile back before it narrows and she vanishes again?
Betts pours herself a second glass. Closes her eyes. Drinks.