“What kind of a name is Belivet?” she asked.
“It’s Czech. It’s changed,” Therese explained awkwardly. “Originally--”
“It’s very original.”
“What’s your name?” Therese asked. “Your first name?”
“My name? Carol. Please don’t ever call me Carole.”
“Please don’t ever call me Thereese,” Therese said, pronouncing the “th.”
“How do you like it pronounced? Therese?”
“Yes. The way you do,” she answered. Carol pronounced her name the French way, Terez. She was used to a dozen variations, and sometimes she herself pronounced it differently. She liked the way Carol pronounced it, and she liked her lips saying it. An indefinite longing, that she had only been vaguely conscious of at times before, became now a recognizable wish. It was so absurd, so embarrassing a desire, that Therese thrust it from her mind.
“What do you do on Sundays?” Carol asked.
“I don’t always know. Nothing in particular. What do you do?”
“Nothing--lately. If you’d like to visit me sometime, you’re welcome to. At least there’s some country around where I live. Would you like to come out this Sunday?” The gray eyes regarded her directly now, and for the first time, Therese faced them. There was a measure of humor in them, Therese saw. And what else? Curiosity, and a challenge, too.
“Yes,” Therese said.
“What a strange girl you are.”
“Why?”
“Flung out of space,” Carol said.