“Grandma, it’s one o’clock in the morning.” 

She did a little pirouette.  When she curtsied, I saw it, recognized it again: the diamond.  There it was between her skinny thighs and knobby knees, an empty space showcasing the tumbleweeds of pillows behind her.

“Come on,” she begged as she plieyed into the library.

She danced maniacally around the shelves.  A fat dictionary lay open on the lectern.

“Three hours are up, need my Biphetamine,” she stared at her reflection in the glass of the grandfather clock knelling the hour. 

“Your what?”

“Look it up, Child,” she gestured to the stand.  I fixated on the space between her thighs.  “Come on, learn a little something.”

Bent over the book, I lifted the magnifying glass by its rotting handle.  I turned the pages in pursuit of “B.”  Sequins of dust divided and multiplied as I slid my finger down the entries.  There, enlarged, was the definition.  The one I had asked my mother about seven years ago.

My grandmother moved back to one of her houses within the month and I never received an answer when I asked about her.