We were sitting on the kitchen floor. Holding our cups of coffee with a little bit of Baileys. It was late. Early morning, in fact. It was one of the last conversations like that that we would have. She told me a story of love and lust, of deceit and betrayal. I could see hurt and guilt. More hurt than guilt. The only thing I said to her to assuage the feelings, was that everybody needs a little bit of drama in their lives. That little bit of hurt that never quite heals. We hold on to it and make it a part of ourselves. Letting it contribute just that much to the making of who we are. And we come out of it okey. We do. Imperceptibly hardened, but at peace with the world and ourselves.