The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) by Lawrence Block

consumption. But don’t think you’re fooling anybody, Carolyn. I see what you’re doing.”
    “What am I doing, Bern?”
    “Playing the role of designated driver. We haven’t got a car and we’re not going anywhere, but that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
    “I might be taking it a little bit easy,” she conceded. “Even so, I’m way too far along to get behind the wheel, which is just as well, considering that I never learned to drive.”
    “You want to learn? I’ll teach you.”
    “Not tonight, Bern.”
    “No of course not,” I said. “Tonight I’m the designated drinker.”

    “I campaigned for gay marriage,” Carolyn said. “I wrote letters to my congressperson, which some poor staffer had to read and respond to. I signed petitions, I went to fund-raisers. I marched, Bernie. I hate marching, I hate parades, I hate all that crap, and yet I marched for gay marriage.”
    “I know you did.”
    “And I danced in the streets when it passed in New York. If I’d been wearing a hat I’d have thrown it in the air.”
    “You should have said something. I’ve got plenty of hats.”
    “And then when the Supreme Court did the right thing, I celebrated all over again.”
    “I remember.”
    She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “And now I’m going to tell you something you must never repeat to another living soul.”
    “No problem,” I said. “I probably won’t remember.”
    “What I’m afraid of,” she said, “is that you’ll remember what I tell you, but you’ll forget that you’re supposed to keep it to yourself. Well, I’m going to say it anyway. I’m not so sure gay marriage is a great idea.”
    “That’s the scotch talking,” I said, “and I guess you’ve had more of it than I realized.”
    “Oh, it’s a right we should have, and we’re way better off for having it. And all the arguments for it are as true as they ever were. And maybe it’s different for gay men. But giving lesbians the right to get married is a dangerous thing.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Bernie, what does a lesbian bring to a second date?”
    “A U-haul,” I said. “You told me that joke a long time ago.”
    “And it still works,” she said, “because it’s true. We’ve got this nesting instinct that’s out of control. ‘Oh, you like me? Well, I like you, too. And we’ve got so much in common! I see you’ve got a cat. I’ve got a cat, too! Isn’t that great? And our cats like each other! Ooh, let’s get a third cat and we can put our heads together to come up with a really cute name for it!’ ”
    “You’re exaggerating.”
    “Not by much. ‘Oh, let’s move in together! We can share a closet and wear each other’s clothes. Don’t you just love L. L. Bean?’ ”
    “Those plaid shirts,” I said.
    “And the worst thing about them is they last forever. ‘Hey, I got an idea! Let’s find a donor and a turkey baster and make a baby. We can be mommies together, and it’ll give us something to do when Lesbian Bed Death puts an end to our sex lives. Or maybe we should have two babies, so it’ll be easier to divvy them up when we both fall in love with other people.’ ”
    “Oh, come on. That’s not fair. There are plenty of lesbian relationships that last a lifetime.”
    “I know.”
    “In fact I’m not sure the odds are any better for a heterosexual marriage.”
    “And how good is that? Bern, every marriage ends either in divorce or death. Did you ever think about that?”
    “No,” I said, “and I wish I didn’t have to think about it now. What did Jim and Joseph do? I mean, when they were still Ginger and Joanne?”
    “What did they do?”
    “Well, they were married. We went to their wedding, we saw it happen. When they decided to split up, what did they do?”
    “I told you, Bern. They sold the house in Rhinebeck, split up the money, and each of them found a place in the city. Well, Ginger did. Joanne wound up somewhere in Queens. I guess Joanne took the