"I brought you this,“ she said, handing it to her. "I found it in Sioux Falls.”
Therese had only twisted some white tissue around it. Carol opened it on the table.
“I think it’s charming,” Carol said. “It looks just like you.”
“Thank you. I thought it looked like you.” Therese looked at Carol’s hand, the thumb and the tip of the middle finger resting on the thin rim of the candlestick, as she had seen Carol’s fingers on the saucers of coffee cups in Colorado, in Chicago, and places forgotten. Therese closed her eyes.
“I love you,” Carol said.
Therese opened her eyes, but she did not look up.
“I know you don’t feel the same about me. Do you?”
Their eyes met at the same instant moment, Therese glancing up from a box she was opening, and the woman just turning her head so she looked directly at Therese. She was tall and fair, her long figure graceful in the loose fur coat that she held open with a hand on her waist, her eyes were grey, colorless, yet dominant as light or fire, and, caught by them, Therese could not look away.