"...maybe a woman, maybe a sonnet, maybe a lack of proper diet."

"You moved the goddamn knife," Sue said after settling into bed. "It's not on the night stand."

"Yeah. So?" Bernie asked aloofly. He'd had a rough day at work. All he wanted was some sadly mechanical missionary and a solid night's rest. Bernie often asked for too much. Consistency on Sue's part when it mattered most was at the top of that list; security in anything at all a close second.

"You're a creature of habit if I've ever encountered one," the unsettled woman responded. "I know you lay there and twirl the thing at night while you read or talk to me on the phone when I'm out of town."

"Oh yeah?" Bernie asked, suddenly intrigued in his partner's newfound detective profession. "How do you figure?"

"It's a switchblade, Bern. I hear you flicking it open over and over like a damn nutjob. I still can't believe you walked four blocks back to that souvenir shop in Key West to get it."

"It's a collector's item. They're illegal here. That thing's worth money. And I hadn't treated myself in awhile at the time so..."

Sue's cold thigh pulled away from Bernie's roasting leg. She wasn't buying any of his ruse. She didn't want any of his heat.

"That's not my point," she scolded in that motherly tone she knew damn well he couldn't stand, the condescending rasp of stubborn omniscience. "I know why you moved it to the dresser."

"Oh yeah?" Bernie asked for the second time in forty-three seconds, this time after swallowing a freshly formed lump in his throat. He wasn't the best liar in town despite Sue's accusations. Being an only child with no dog had forced him to take the rap time and time again. It had also forced him to share, ironically. He had to split his love between two very different parents in two very different homes, whether or not either of them deserved it at any given time.

"You think I'm going to stab you in your sleep," Sue said as casually as a confident prosecutor closing a foolproof argument. There was no need for flare anymore. She had him pinned like a glass-cased butterfly.

"You're out of your mind," Bernie laughed, though visibly uncomfortable. Small beads of sweat formed on his brow ignoring the fact that the cool September air was rolling through the open window. "I was playing with it the other night and left it on the dresser is all."

"Yes, the dresser. Close enough for you to stumble for in the evening while you read your damn Bukowski, but far enough that I'd have to get out of bed to grab it if I wanted to put you out of your misery in your sleep; and me out of mine in the process."

"Jesus, woman. Stick to your day job. This midnight detective shit is not so impressive." Bernie almost said it with enough gusto to convince himself of his statement. Almost.

Sue laughed in unacknowledged triumph. Bernie laughed like a pardoned death row inmate. Her thigh warmed up after sliding next to his. The thin layer of sweat on his forehead evaporated. The next morning he put the knife back on the night stand, but neither of them looked at it for two full days, and with damn good reason. They knew to choose their battles just as they chose their friends: sparingly.