People were just starting to talk about the idea of bisexuality, but I’m not sure I even understood that the word referred to me then. I wasn’t interested in finding a label for what I already knew. I loved men. I loved Celia. I was OK with that. “Celia, stop it. I’m sick of this conversation. You’re being a brat.” She laughed coldly. “Exactly the same Evelyn I’ve been dealing with for years. Nothing’s changed. You’re afraid of who you are, and you still don’t have an Oscar. You are what you have always been: a nice pair of tits.” I let the silence hang in the air for a moment. The buzz of the phone was the only sound either of us could hear. And then Celia started crying. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should never have said that. I don’t even mean it. I’m so sorry. I’ve had too much to drink, and I miss you, and I’m sorry that I said something so terrible.” “It’s fine,” I said. “I should be going. It’s late here, you understand. Congratulations again, sweetheart.” I hung up before she could reply. That was how it was with Celia. When you denied her what she wanted, when you hurt her, she made sure you hurt, too.