Therese's nose barely brushes Carol's neck, but the slight contact makes the entire room feel warm. Pulling back, she tries to remember to breath, to swallow courage as they turn back to their whiskey. Carol watches her quietly—as always—giving her just enough space to make her feel soothed and rattled at once. The evening has been so wonderfully light-hearted and warm. Therese feels torn between a great desire to keep it so—to not spoil it—and a desperate need to push things further—to know.
"May I," Therese tries, eyes focusing on the small patch of threadbare carpet between them. "May I ask you something?"
Carol's fingers still around her glass. Therese can nearly feel the way her head tilts, the way her voice dips into a somehow still lower register.
"Always."
The record stops again—as if it, too, suddenly can't quite breathe properly. Carol waits a moment, but when only silence continues, she discards her glass and brings the cool of her fingertips into contact with Therese's right knee.
"It's alright, Therese."
Therese can't take her eyes away from that small point of contact. Her whole body zeroes in on the slight press against her skin. Her voice, when she does find it, sounds too loud in her own ears—like the words she'd meant to whisper are more of a shout inside her own body.
"You've been involved romantically? With women, I mean."
Carol's voice and demeanor in response are, somehow, just as smooth, just as steadfast, as always.
"Yes."
"And you've found that you like it?"
The corner of Carol's mouth tips up.
"Yes, I like it, Therese. Very much."
Therese swallows noticeably. Her gaze sweeps Carol's cheekbones, her eyebrows, the tuck of blonde hair behind her left ear. Her own knee—where Carol's hand still rests—feels almost pulsingly alive with sensation, but then Carol removes her touch. It's as though the sudden disconnect makes Therese keep talking.
"Have there been…many?"
"Not many. Some."
"Forgive me for being so forward."
"Nonsense. I told you to ask."
Suddenly Therese feels like she can't look away—from Carol's jaw, or the beautiful line of her collarbone, or anything and everything about her that is just so utterly striking.
"I think I knew. Nearly straight away, somehow."
"Is that so?"
Therese nods.
"I felt it; I think."
Carol regards her for a moment.
"Did you?"
There it is. That same slight note of—what? Of yearning? The one Therese told herself she'd only imagined over the phone in the whisper of: Ask me things.
"Yes. When you stood behind me at your piano. Maybe even before. Maybe when you laid your gloves on my counter. I felt…more awake. And I couldn't think."
"I see."
A moment of quiet stretches by in which they only look at each other. It's Carol, as almost always, who finally breaks the silence.
"Are you thinking anything now, Therese?"
"Incredibly silly things, I'm afraid."
"Such as?"
Therese's chest swells with a quick breath. Her pulsing thoughts feel completely absurd, yet inescapable. She tilts her head.
"I'm wondering if your hair is as soft as it looks."
Carol's gaze doesn't waiver, doesn't move from Therese's own eyes, and yet it shifts somehow; it suddenly feels to Therese, when combined with Carol's rich, steadfast voice, like it holds a caress. She smiles.
"You're thinking about my hair?"
"Yes."
"You may touch it if you'd like."
Therese reaches out, slowly and carefully, and lets the tips of her fingers connect with the curl at the end of Carol's hair. For a moment, it feels like she's outside her own body. For a moment, it feels like everything. The golden strands glide between her thumb and finger and fit just so. The sensation—such a small intimacy—is entirely overwhelming. She notices Carol breathe in and blink slowly, and the movement somehow brings her back to herself. Her swirling thoughts surge.
"I've had experiences. With men I mean." She says, eyes running quickly across Carol's face before returning to her hair.
"Oh?"
"Yes." Therese's expression takes on a quality of confused concentration. "I've gone to bed once. Not with Richard. I've never told anyone that. "
"I see."
"It didn't feel like…well…like anything at all really."
Carol reaches up, pulls Therese's hand into her own lap and holds it there. It's an invitation; a nudge, perhaps, but not a push. Carol will not push.
"This is different." Therese whispers. "I don't know what it means."
"It doesn't have to mean anything." Carol offers quietly. She runs her thumb, slowly, over Therese's knuckles.
"Don't say that. Please. I want…"
It catches in Therese's throat. Everything that exists in the small spaces between them. In the whispered half-phrases and quiet moments they share. In all of the half-truths, even now.
Maybe Carol will push. Just a little.
"What do you want, Therese?"
Therese feels too warm, too stiff, too much.
"I want you to kiss me."