Tuesday, January 25th, 1955

Companion?

It sounded so clinical and boring. Every time Carol heard the term "companion," she thought of those pampered hand-held dogs she saw by Central Park. Hyper little beasts with bug eyes and prickly fur who were always eager to take a bite out of passersby. Their handlers were usually equally as brutal too.

Companion also brought to mind those dowdy ladies from her youth who always traveled in pairs or packs of at least four. They were always the ones accompanied their nieces aboard the steamer ships and checked on their every move. Always these Bryn Mawr or Wellesley graduates from the Class of 1896 and beyond who never married, but lived together in these glorious brownstones on the Upper West Side that they inherited from their parents, filled up to the servants quarters with incredible furniture, as Carol often found. They went everywhere together and often had this humorous way that they said, "girls." Always with this intense focus on the letter g that sounded ridiculous.

"Companions" always hid who they actually were. If they were anything at all. That wasn't Carol and Therese by any means. It wasn't always them against the world, they had their own little network and places they could go to where there were no worries. They had their handful of friends who knew, but for the most part, their home life was private and they liked it that way.

Girlfriend?

This wasn't a crush on the playground. This wasn't some girl from algebra class who helped out with homework or was on the pep squad. And Therese was no girl. She was a stunningly beautiful, loving woman who was devoted to her. She wasn't some girl you simply flung woo with in the back of a Dodge on Lover's Lane.

And she was definitely not just a friend.

Something about the way Carol would pick up Therese beneath her thighs and carry her over to the nearest waist-high surface and then carefully spread each leg with a touch of her hand. Rendering Therese unable to think rationally aside from a nod of the head when Carol asked what she would like prefer (fingers, tongue, or both) was the usual goal. Carol would trail her fingers up and down, then nibble right beneath her ear, making Therese pant and moan as she reviewed her three options one more time as fingers now languidly slid in and out.

From Therese's neck to her breasts to her navel and lower, Carol slid her tongue all the way down to where her fingers were inside. She always spent longer than she needed to with her mouth. Gentle strokes of Carol's curling tongue were typically Therese's favorite means of orgasm: it was how Carol had first made her come that night in Waterloo. Therese was close as soon as Carol felt her thighs tense and stomach shake from concentrating on every sensation.

Sometimes, just before it would hit, Therese would blurt out, "I need you - need you up here." Carol then knew Therese wanted to be held as she rode out the waves of pleasure, rake her fingernails against Carol's back, look into her eyes as she contracted around the fingers inside her, and kiss the lips that tasted like the arousal only Carol could inspire.

In short: not a girl, not a friend, not a girlfriend.

Steady?

Again, they weren't in high school or college looking for the football captain to pin them under the bleachers after the box social.

While Therese didn't have a ring, she had her necklace. Not like she could suddenly start wearing a ring on her finger without attracting everyone's attention at the Times. Carol had been married, had always worn rings and bracelets that drew the eye to her hands; that always blended in so easily for her and no one would think anything of it. It was different for Carol: she could, Therese couldn't. Maybe when Therese was older.

They also had clearly done a whole lot more together than just hold hands when they were behind closed doors.

Better half?

Were they so incomplete without the other? Sometimes Carol thought so. When she wasn't feeling well, too exhausted to raise her arms to wash her hair, Therese would get the shampoo from the bath and bring it into the kitchen so she could wash her hair for her in the sink under the faucet and with the spray hose. Massaging her scalp, rubbing behind her ears, running her fingers through lathered gold locks, Carol never would have thought of that.

Or when Therese would roll up to the shop on her beloved beige Vespa after getting a call from Carol that she was having a rough day. She'd honk the horn, surprising Carol, who would immediately lock up and hop onto the back, clutching Therese as they rode through Midtown on a thirty-minute jaunt in the middle of the day.

There would also be those times where, in the middle of the night, when Therese would be turned onto her side facing away from Carol, and start moaning and reaching for Carol behind her. Hearing the distressed sounds, Carol would wake and turn her over to hold her, snuggling Therese into her arms and wrapping a leg around hers to keep her as close as possible. Once she stilled, Carol would adjust the blankets over them, making sure Therese was warm, covered, and safe from whatever it was that plagued her.

That made them "better halves," but still, it wasn't as powerful a term. It wasn't a box one would tick on official paperwork.

At the same time, they weren't co-dependent upon one another. Carol could easily travel for work looking for an elusive Louis Quinze cabinet in Maine over a weekend or spend an afternoon at Abby's in New Jersey. Yes, sometimes Therese came along, but sometimes she liked having the apartment to herself, for a few hours or a night. When they regrouped, Carol would be more cuddly than usual, holding Therese a little bit tighter to her as she slept.

Intended?

That implied a never-ending courtship where someone was so indecisive they couldn't even see the light of possibility where they would be married. "We intend to marry" anyways sounded like there was a tremendous obstacle in the way or someone got caught with their pants around their ankles and that was the default response to ensure propriety and morals.

It was yet another outdated term that just didn't apply to the two of them, but Carol still heard it thrown around nonetheless.

Sweetheart?

Was it 1919? Carol wasn't a dandy on the prowl for a sweetheart down at the dance hall on a Saturday night. She would never refer to Therese as "her sweetheart" if she was talking about the two of them as a couple. It sounded nearly as juvenile as girlfriend.

Certainly, Carol would call Therese "sweetheart" as a private nickname or term of endearment; it was easily one of her favorites, but it still did not convey the exact term she wanted. Therese was sweet, so gentle and so so sweet, that it was impossible to not refer to her as "sweetheart," "sweetie," or even "sweetness" when the mood struck. Not when she would curl up next to Carol in winter, tossing a heavy Hudson Bay Point blanket over the two of them to watch the snow fall from the balcony of the apartment, back lit by the light of the moon and city lights.

However sweetheart was never a term that she would use to describe Therese if someone asked her if she was in a relationship. "She's my sweetheart." Carol once said to a close friend. In the end, it just sounded too old fashioned when she thought back on it, and regretted putting it that way. But, at the time, didn't know how else to convey her relationship with Therese.

Lover?

In English, lover just sounded too off-putting. It didn't have the same connotation as amante; didn't sound as romantic. Perhaps if she said it in French, with that extra emphasis on the t at the end for the keen listener, it would sound better and she would be more agreeable to referring to Therese as that. It wasn't practical though, no one would ever understand why she called her that in the first place. Beware, using the French word would just make her sound snobbish and phony.

They shared a bed. Every night. In some people's eyes, that make Therese her lover. They participated in said loving activities in the aforementioned bed. It wasn't the same as a male-female couple though where lover implied such elicit meanings of infidelity and premarital relations. There was nothing elicit about the way in which they loved and cared for each other. They shared a home, they shared a life, whether others approved or not.

Partner?

Was Therese a multinational conglomeration of energy companies vying for another merger in northern Europe? Did they run an antique furniture store out of an old barn in New Jersey? No, that was Abby. Abby had been a partner in the truest sense of the word. For a time at least.

They were a team though, they did encounter life's problems together and work through everything that was thrown at them. Partner suggested a coldness, a detachment. Therese was anything but cold.

Wife?

In every sense of the word, when Carol truly sat down to think about it, Therese was her wife, or at least something similar. They could never legally be married like a man and a woman ("That'd be the day!" Carol had once exclaimed), but they had the protections of one wherever Carol had seen to make it possible. They were married in many ways with their home and their shared responsibility. Carol's simple engraved rose gold ring; Therese's round ruby necklace. Their vacations together around the world. Their ability to tackle issues as one.

Maybe "wife" brought up too many memories of Carol's marriage. Wife was always impersonally attached to some man in everyone's eyes; "Harge's wife," or "Cy's wife," as though they weren't worthy of their own identity. They deserved better. They deserved much more.

Therese?

Yes, that was it. "My Therese," she would always say, or "my darling Therese." Plain and simple, as there could only be the one.