putting isabela thru the horrors of being too drunk in front of someone rly sweet and rly hot and rly attentive hashtag femslash friday
"Your husband," Bethany says, and Isabela groans, loose and unable to muster much of a flinch when Luis is so dead and so — dead. "Can I ask about him?"
"You never ask permission," Isabela scoffs, drunk enough that she's contorted on the bench, spine twisted so she can lean her whole weight on her arm with her crossed legs pointing vaguely in the direction of the main conversation. "Not for your little questions."
"My little questions?" Bethany repeats after a moment, and Isabela senses she's misstepped.
"Oh, you know," she replies breezily. "You ask everyone questions. You do it with everyone. It's cute."
"Cute," Bethany remarks after another pause. Isabela tries to sober up enough to focus.
"You just — want to know things," she blusters. "I admire it! Me, I — well, you get older," she explains, though suddenly it doesn't feel all that comfortable to be older than Bethany, "you sort of — you lose your taste for it. Better not to know, that's my philosophy. If you know, you get involved. You don't mean to, but you do."
"Get involved in what?" Bethany asks.
"Other people," Isabela shrugs. "Their — lives, their everything."
"Is that a bad thing?" Bethany asks. Relentless.
"You're doing it again," Isabela informs her, shifting in her seat to spare her hip socket and taking another swig of her beer. "Nosy, nosy, nosy."
She tilts her head at Bethany, inviting her to smile, too, but while the corner of Bethany's lip twitches up dutifully, she keeps her eyes averted, and a bizarre, slow-moving panic rolls over Isabela like a sickly flush.
"Luis," she blurts out, setting her drink down a little clumsily, but there's not enough beer in it to slosh over the rim. "My husband. Luis was — it's not exactly a fun story, sweetness, that's all."