“Preston Stokes,” she repeated, and seemed to think about it. “No—no, that’s not you. It’s too ... Preston’s a soldier’s name—or a wealthy industrialist’s. You’re more of a ...”
I raised an eyebrow, like Mr. Spock. I thought it might make her laugh.
“Lucas. I’m going to call you Lucas.” She kissed me suddenly. “And you can call me Lana; which may or may not be my real name.” She kissed me again—just a peck, but it may as well have been the world. “Lucas and Lana.”
“Lucas and Lana,” I repeated—and smiled. “There it is.”
And we chuckled—not very merrily, not for very long—until she diverted her eyes and the silence resumed.
At last, she said: “We’d never fit in, you know.” She swallowed moistly, viscously, thickly. “In their clean, well-lit place. In their chapel full of rules and edict
