That evening they sat in the car, parked alongside rows of lovers, both overshadowed and illuminated by a large projection screen. The film, Therese supposed, was half way through, but she couldn't be certain, for the focus of her attention was pulled to a space no more than an inch across, where her hand rested on the seat next to Carol's.
A chilled breeze, carried by the muted hum of cicadas, filtered through half rolled windows to mingle with the delicate scent of perfume. Therese inhaled. If it were her last breath she would've been content; Carol and the night.
With her breath still drawn, Therese raised her little finger. The car afforded them privacy but Carol, she knew, would not approve. They were not truly alone. Nevertheless, Therese reached past her own hesitancy towards the perfectly polished nails but, at the last second, before she could make contact, Carol withdrew her hand. Therese watched the glossy, red tips sweep through pale hair and disappear behind a pearl adorned ear.
Swallowing her foolishness, Therese cast her awareness back to the actors on screen. She watched the story unfold before her with a new clarity. It struck Therese now, the desire that was perpetually reincarnated in plays and stamped into pages, the longing that danced across stages and echoed in music, all the art which aspired to but would ultimately fail in evoking something that could only be felt.
Therese sensed Carol shift and a warmth wrap around her legs. She glanced down. Beneath the blanket, long fingers brushed along the length of her arm, and Therese felt her skin, like canvas, being painted into existence. It was no different to the first time, the shiver of excitement that spread through her as Carol's fingers continued to entangle themselves with hers.
Therese smiled. How was it that no one had told her, she wondered, that happiness could be contained within two hands.