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It was a Thursday evening, very late. The night air became increasingly frigid; the third week of January, and the first true month of the winter season. The days of wet snow and blistering wind grew common.

A young woman named Genevieve shudders as she walks across the sloppy terrain of the winter-ravaged parking lot. Genevieve was twenty-three, gliding into the dreaded workforce with this call-centre job. Maybe not quite where she dreamed of being, but for now, it helped to pay the bills. At this moment, the clock was slightly past 12:30 AM, and her shift at the call-centre was complete. Home was where she was about to go.

She entered her car and turned the key. Her car was a difficult beast to co-operate with, especially during this type of evening; if Gen were to shift to drive immediately upon the turning of the key, the car would stall. As a consequence, Gen would have to shudder a bit longer, while her used vehicle grudgingly brought warmth to the inside.

Sometimes her radio would be turned to the local pop station, or oldies station, or what have you. Occasionally, when the empty repetitive banter of deejays and commericals drove her nuts, she'd bring along a CD for the ride. Tonight was one of those special nights. Her CD of choice this week was a Celine Dion disc, but in French. It was one of the older albums she had made when she was famous in Quebec but not anywhere else. Back then, few would have predicted that she'd be one of the more popular people in the world.

There were a lot of French CD's in the glove compartment, resting up for the next trip inside the CD player. Occassionally, an English artist would storm into the unilingual gathering, jarring the proceedings with less elegant language and imagery. Comments like these in our narration should not imply that there is something wrong with English, but it does imply the true nature of Gen's music collection. Sharp-tounged rap artists shared the coveted space with the classy French artists.

She moved the car into reverse and pulled out of her coveted parking space, breathing a sigh of relief that the car did not stall on her, and she'd have to start the car yet again. The tires crushed the crystalized snow, and slithered gently over the glassy ice. Soon she was on the road, which was as treacherous on wheels as the parking lot was on foot. Celine's voice skipped and jumped due to the beating of the potholes and ice-chunks beneath the car. The tires valiantly endeavoured to remain on the thin tracks made by countless other tires during the evening, but, more often than not, they were caught in the thin film of snow created during the past two or three hours. Gen rarely had to deal with slippery conditions when she was in the West Coast. But ever since she moved here two years ago, she slowly became resigned to the fact of the bitter conditions affecting regular citizens in the winter. For them, harsh wind, wet snow, and tiny tracks on the road were taken for granted, and it was more of a shock to them when winters were warmer than usual, rather than colder.

A second-floor apartment, on the other side of town, was her home, but it was more like a furnished icebox. When she entered, she was still wearing her sweater, and yet chills still crawled over her arms and sides. Nothing could be done about it. Not tonight, at least.

"It's not going to get any better tonight, babe.", her roommate snarled. "The heater's on the fritz again, the stupid landlord...."

Gen rubbed her hands vainly, craving for any slither of heat. Renee was much more vocal about the lack of warmth, and more willing to make idle threats.

"You know, if I had a better job, and....", she smiled to Gen, "...if you weren't such a great friend, I`d move to another apartment!"

"But you love it here. And you know that they are always hiring new people at the call centre.", she says without much conviction, already knowing Renee`s response.

"But the bookstore needs me! I can't abandon them.... it's not exactly Chapters, it's the local independent store. It needs all the help they can get.... and I love everyone there.", praised Renee, the devoted, principled, employee.

"Anyway, I'm tired; I'll see you in the morning, okay.", Gen said attentively.

She walked into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her before getting undressed to crawl under the covers. Gen said that she was tired, but sleep didn't always come quickly to her. Most nights, she would just lie in the bed, stare at the ceiling, think about random things. She would extract anything from her memories, and allow her mind to proceed with its own inexplicable logic.

*

.........Genevieve.

Her name, given to her at birth, of course, somewhere in the endless stretch of the city of Vancouver. Her childhood was imperfect, like everybody's, even if they do not like to admit to it.

Her parents, her French father and her English mother, divorced while she was young, and she and her sister, Catherine, had very different takes on the situation. Gen related in relatively positive ways to both the remaining mother and the absent father, but Catherine could not stand her father at all. Before Catherine's adolescence, she gave him the silent treatment, but once she grew older and more temperamental, like any teenager, she became the aggressor, lashing out at his miserly attempts at fathering.

"What gives you the right to boss me around and tell me what you expect of me.... when you are not even living in this house?" was the argument she always gave, in one form or another. All he did was name her, and then leave, so why should he wonder at why she did not act up to his selfish standards? Catherine rarely gave him much attention, and often disobeyed him. Gen took a while to adjust, but after awhile, was able to keep her emotions in check, and was able to find good times with both parents.

It may be clear from these facts that Catherine developed into a wild child, while Gen remained as she always had been; quiet and reflective, perhaps too much so. Her little sister was willing to test the boundaries of responsibility. One of her friends had persuaded her to assist in the act of shoplifting. Catherine took the fall, which came back to haunt her repeatedly when she would often get into trouble, as if she didn't believe she could act any differently.

As Gen grew older, she became curious, as some children are, about why and how their parents got together, what they did, and so on. Gen found herself much more comfortable asking her mother such private queries.....

"We went out for a few years before we married.", her mother stating the obvious. "We had some good times back then --- ". Her voice failed. ".....anyway, we did everything that all us teenyboppers would do. Restaurants, malls, the drive-in.....nothing really exciting or glamourous."

"What movies did you see? Probably a bunch of old fogies!", she smirked.

"Hey!", gently chastening her. "They weren't elderly back then! John Travolta was actually a hot star..... but we didn't always go to the Hollywood movies. We went to a lot of French movies as well - a couple of the small theatres played a lot of older movies and such."

"But how could you understand them? You didn't know French very well back then, did you?"

"All of the movies had subtitles anyway. But it didn't matter.... I just liked being there with him. I was transported into such a different world. People spoke differently, acted differently..... even the images struck me. It was such an odd texture, a strange impression on the brain."

Gen tried to imagine what those films looked like. She had vague impressions of Parisian scenery, exotic fashions, romance, but nothing specific.

"Anyway,", her mother continued. "...that's why you and Catherine have the names that you do. I wanted to name you after the French actresses I've seen. You came along first, and I knew that you'd be named after Genevieve Bujoud. It was a gorgeous name, very unique. Nobody else would have that name, and you'd be a very special girl."

Gen cringed at the whole idea of being unique. Teens don't want to be singled out, they want to be led by the nose to the conformist slaughter.

"And when your sister was born, I had to pick another actress to inspire me - and Catherine Deneve came to me. She was always very beautiful, very cold and serious, all at once." She allowed herself a shrewd grin. "My Catherine is beautiful, absolutely, although I don't think she is very restrained......"

"She tries, but she's very emotional...", Gen agreed.

"You're more like my idea of Catherine than the girl who got the name!", she declared. "I know that you'll grow up to be successful, and you'll certainly be able to keep everything together...."

*

Gen did remember tuning in to a film with Bujoud. Isabel; it was very weird. She caught the tail end of it one sluggish autumn afternoon on Bravo!, and at first thought, it didn't impress her. The print was dingy, and dark, and the film was obviously low-budget. But what she saw ended up haunting her for some reason.

All she really could remember was that it took place in some Canadian town, and that the ending, the part she saw, was fairly violent. The lead was about to be gang-raped, until her knight in shining armour, she supposed, came in and fought off the three men. He was knocked about, but at least he got rid of the men, and she was grateful. Gen didn`t remember much of the ensuing dialogue, but the images remained, pestering her memory, even as she tried to say that Isabel would not have been a good movie had she watched all of it. The last shots: sinister faces moving toward her. We see things from her point of view. They approach as if to kiss her..... or to maul her?.... juxtaposed with her and her boyfriend making out, as the credits silently plaster themselves upon the screen. Gen needed more info. She had to know where those images came from; what the cause of those strange images were. But when she researched on the Internet, she found nothing of merit. The film was lost, even though it was a Paramount release, and not extremely old.

Did Gen see the film at all, or was it another one of her lazy nights where she stared at the ceiling, dreaming the night away?

*

"I guess..... I realized that life isn't the movies, even French movies. Well, I doubt that's really why we separated...... divorced."

Gen's mother paused after saying this to her daughter. Perhaps she was giving Gen a bit of a lesson, unknowingly, on how a proper relationship ought to be, and what it could very well become, if the partners focussed on the ideal rather than the real.

"It.... just wasn't meant to be. Just because a man gives you culture, a new way of speaking, an interesting view of the world.... doesn't mean that he knows you, or appreciates you as a full human being."

"So..... does that mean you'd never watch those movies anymore if I were to want you to watch them with me someday?"

"No.... it's not that bad. I`d still watch them if I had the chance. I just don't have to be a slave to it any longer. That was..... the problem with your dad. He wanted me to be French... which was impossible! I wasn't even born French, so how could I be it. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't a brute. He was just very insistent. He demanded that you girls went to French immersion, and learn the language. He wanted French to be spoken at the table. He wanted to keep the culture alive, even if it was just in our little house." She sounded nearly apologetic of his actions, or perhaps it was humbled. "But... he didn't really love me as I was, only as he wanted me to be......"

*

The next night was only slightly more improved than the previous. The roads were still covered in snow, but the tires did not slip. It was much easier to reach the desired speed limit.

Gen went to her job with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Dealing with the public was a troubling beast; she felt ill-equipped to handle the demands somedays, and other days she had to try very hard to push those feelings away. As she entered the building, she passed her friend Tisha speaking to Frank, somebody she knew from work but not all that well. Their conversation seemed pretty intense, but Gen was not in the business of inquisition. Besides, she was focussed on her job; the mental weight of this experience was enough to make her forget about the other events of the world. It had been so long since she had time for frivolous things....

.......first call.

*

Voices filled the large room, all with intentions of assisting strangers from god-knows-where with pertinent information. Gen, Tisha, Frank, many others, fielded many requests, from renewal and cancellations of subscriptions, to the payment of bills, to singular items which only the stranger can truly understand, despite much attempts to get the meaning through to the assistant.

Gen had been on the job for four hours today, and needed to fill her belly. Yet she was not asked to leave her post, and had to pick up the receiver yet again.....

"Hello, Customer assistance."

"Hi, I was wanting to cancel my subscription."

"Yes, we can do that for you...", why would they bother subscribing if all they were going to do was abandon the title four months later? But the customer was always correct, so no asking petty questions like that.

"So, where are you from, dear?"

Her eyes blinked at the bluntness and unexpectedness of this question, from a complete stranger. What would she gain from acquiring such information.

"Ah...... from Vancouver, actually.", she grudgingly began. "I moved here to Prince Edward Island a few years ago."

"Oh..... because I detected a slight bit of francais in your voice.", she suspected.

Really? She never really thought her accent had any French. She learned French, mainly at home, true, and was bilingual, but she didn't really see herself as une femme de la francaise.

The stranger asked more questions. "So what's your name, again?"

"Gen..." Gen? "Well, it's Genevieve, actually. Everybody just calls me Gen."

"What a sweet name... Genevieve sounds much better."

"Thanks. Mom named me after Genevieve Bujoud." Gen thought it odd to reveal all this to a faceless customer.

"She must be a fan of French movies, then...."

Gen noticed, as the stranger spoke of people she knew who were French, qualifying her for knowledge of the French accent, that the computer had completed its process, and successfully cancelled her subscription.

"Well, the job is done. You're no longer on the list, so nobody should bug you anymore!", she joked.

"Thanks, dear, I won't take up any more of your time. Bye-bye."

"Bye...."

Gen thought about that name. Gen. The term was easy to use. Everybody remembered it, and it bounced easily off the tongue. But was it truly the name that she ought to call herself, being a French girl and all......?

"Gen....?"

She was lost somewhere in the recesses of herself.

"Gen....?!"

"Oh..... hi, Tish?", still perplexed.

"The voices must be ringing in your head again!", Tisha jibed. "How about a much-needed coffee break?"

"I supposed I can be persuaded.", she agreed fondly.

"Good..... I have an offer you ought not to pass up!"

*

"So, have any plans for the weekend?", Tisha asked, pouring her cream into the coffee cup.

"No, I've had too many hours this week, so....I'm too strung out to go and party..", she grinned.

"Too bad.... because I fixed you up with a date!", she moaned mockingly.

Gen was stunned. "Not a blind date, now?! With who?"

"Frank, actually." Gen's face relaxed somewhat at the knowledge that the guy was a known commodity. "He talked about you.... and he wondered if you were free at all.....", hinting not so subtly as to the definition of free.

"So as to talk my ear off, I suppose.", she smirked.

"Well, you can talk his ear off... you can say all the things you wish you could tell those who call you.", she attempted to reassure her.

Gen looked down at her half-filled cup. A date would be a good thing; she had been too anti-social, lately. "Frank's a pretty good guy...... I think I could go with him."

"I hope that you don't mind. I just thought it'd be a good idea.", Tisha said candidly. "If you hit it off, perhaps we should all go out one night."

"Well, let me talk to him, Tisha.", Gen declared. "I don't think you have to do all of our dirty work!"

*

She was happy to go on a date again. Tisha's offering snapped Gen out of her one-track mind-set. She had been working so much, during so many nights, that she was no longer accustomed to just letting loose once in a while. Most nights she was home, staring up at the ceiling, if Renee or Tisha weren't accompanying her on the couch in front of the television. Gen was in a rut, and Tisha implied that it had to stop.

The date was simple. Gen and Frank went to the pool hall. She knew she wasn't good at the game, and Frank insisted he wasn't either. Well, at least they were perfectly matched. The first game went as expected: about thirty minutes was needed to finish the game, since the game could not go any slower. Eventually, however, Gen managed to sink the eight ball and win the game, and were now preparing for the second match.

"Actually, my friend possibly might have lied to you about me!", she joked, as she emptied the pockets around the pool-table.

Frank's eyes narrowed in modest suspicion - "What would that be? You're wanted by the law? You're married? You have a boyfriend.....?" - before his eyes brightened with humour.

"No.....my name. People always call me Gen, but it's not entirely correct.", she tensed with anticipation of her own punch line. "My real name is...... Genevieve!"

"Pretty much the same thing, I suppose....", he inquired.

"No, no, no, my man.", she insisted, stopping her task of lining up the balls. "Gen sounds so slangy, conventional. Genevieve, on the other hand, is very exotic - makes me sound important."

The two laugh. "So we're very full of ourselves, then?", he asked.

"No - but I am a special person, many will never realize that, but it's true."

"Well, Goddess Genevieve, we'll just see how special you are when we play another game of pool!", passing her the cue.

The second game was under way. Neither were great players, and they knew it. If Paul Newman walked off the black-and-white screen of The Hustler and searched for a new group of suckers, he would have a hard time with these two, because he`d have to pretend to play even more horribly than ever before.

But occasionally, one of the duo will strike a good deal with luck, and hit the perfect shot.

"Wow, I can't believe that - did you see it?", Frank asked. The white ball grazed the side of the 12 ball, which rolled directly into the cup, not touching any other ball, or the edges of the cup. Straight on!

"Pure luck!", she teased. "You realize those tables aren't constructed properly. The banks are crooked."

"Girl, I think it's just because you aren't winning - how could the tables be wrong??"

They began another game, with only their uncertain talents to counsel them. Amazingly, Gen was able to successfully break on her first shot, as opposed to merely cracking the white ball against the others with little effect. Gen thrilled slightly at her strong effort. The actual game, despite this promising beginning, however, proceeded in fits and starts. Their playing was so erratic that a spectator could have watched two or three games at another table before turning back to see Gen and Frank still picking at their first.

After about ten minutes, Gen and Frank both had equal numbers of their suit out of play. Gen, on a whim, decided to experiment with an impossible shot involving the three-ball. The three-ball was only inches away from the right centre pocket. The issue was that a crowd of assorted balls, of all colours, stripes and numerical identifiers, stood in the way of the white ball ever striking that desired number three. The only way it could be done was if the ball moved at an angle against the left side and returned to the 3, pushing it into the pocket.

She called the ball, saying that she hoped to bring some actual skill in this game. Her heart ached with the potential of success.

The white ball rolled away from the gathering of the high balls and the eight-ball, until it ricocheted from the left banks and travelled back to the right side of the table, this time on the other side of the crowd. The white ball, determined, slapped the 3-ball upon its centre, spinning it right into the hole.

"Now that was a perfect shot!", Gen said truthfully.

Frank was very impressed. The two of them finally broke their bad streak. For about the next five minutes, they were great. They both believed that they would be able to complete that elusive game in record time. Until Gen knocked Frank's 11-ball by mistake, followed by Frank sinking the 8-ball before his 10 and 12, that is.

*

Somewhat tired, the two entered Gen's apartment. They were only lukewarm, even while wearing their sweaters and jackets, as the weather had turned breezy after they left the pool-hall. And the apartment was not much warmer, as Gen already knew and Frank discovered after having taken off their jackets.

"The weather isn't so great. It's that time of year.", said Gen.

"It's always like this.", Frank responded. "Obviously you haven't been here long."

"It wasn't cold when I moved here.....must've been one of those abnormal winters!"

Gen went to the fridge, opening it to reveal a scarcity of items. "Frank....do you want anything to drink." Her eyes searched the culinary void. "There's not very much here....."

"Anything you like...", he said approvingly.

She reached for the orange juice, the closest to the front. There was at least enough left for the two of them. "Here's some OJ, if that's all right??"

"Sure.", he said.

The orange juice flowed from the carton spout; the liquid sloshing around the sides of the glass. Gen heard glasses rattling from the cabinet.

"I`ll have some as well, mayhaps!", Renee declared.

"Oh, hi, I never noticed you....", she said, startled.

"Yea, well, I`m just getting ready to go out, actually. Jeff's picking me up and we're going out on the town!"

"Well, this was my night," happily pointing to Frank. "Frank, this is my roomie, Renee."

Frank gives a wave of the hand and greets her kindly.

"So what did you guys do tonight?", she queried.

"Lost at pool....", Gen flatly stated. "The usual!"

"Guess what?", Renee began. "The bookstore wants to compete against the big guys; they are remodelling everything; putting up a café, changing a lot of the books, setting up special readings, etc. It`s really cool, and it means a lot of hours for me!"

"At minimum wage, no doubt.", Gen ribbed.

"Oh, so what..... I`ve been called, and I will answer that call!", she beamed victoriously. "Anyway, I gotta go...see you guys!"

Renee stepped out of the apartment, leaving Gen and her date alone to do....well, anything they so desired. For the next while, they concentrated their strength on the bitter cold of the apartment, wrapping themselves in blankets, and engaging in light banter to distract from the pinching of the air. The seconds and minutes accumulated ..........

Nearly midnight....... neither wanted to leave the other's company. The television was on, the two spoke until words failed them, yet they did not want to part. The room was quiet in the most soothing of ways, and it was clear that both of them had their minds on situations that weren't necessarily platonic. They looked at each other nervously, wanting to touch, but waiting for that moment when it was absolutely safe.

Gen was the one who leapt first. She rumpled her body until it laid across the couch, her head upon Frank's lap, with her eyes staring upwards to his face.

"Hello.... what are you doing way up there?", she absurdly asked.

"Where should I be?"

She tilted her head upwards, feeling a strain upon her neck as she did, and was able to awkwardly kiss him.

"That's where you should be...."

"Well, ummm....", he evaluated. "Is this a wish or a demand?"

"I wish for you to be here, I demand that you supply me with an answer!", she ordered amusingly. She laughed frankly. He laughed with joyful uncertainty, which he wanted to recifty by returning her soft kiss. The mutual response created a more vigourous embrace; her hands clung to his neck as her mouth met his.

Absently, his fingers slid across the lower portion of her backbone. He caressed the slither of exposed skin underneath the hem of her shirt. Continuously, he rubbed it with his fingertips, feeling the coolness of her body in this cold room. Their gentle passions continued, offsetting the chill of the air.

"It's a bit nippy here, don't you think?", Frank whispered, breathing heavily.

Gen's eyes liquefied, her body relaxed. "Yes, it is very cold....", she smiled, her mouth anxious, before Frank rubbed her lips with his index finger.

"If I weren't so polite... I'd ask you if I could stay a bit longer...."

"And if I weren't so polite, I'd ask you to stay, too!", she responded.

Their eyes stared for what felt like hours, saying all the things that they were too polite to say.

*

As they made love, the alarm clock radio sang, adding to the hasty ambiance.

Gen's head felt lighter than air, resting upon the pillow. She felt Frank's hands tightly squeezing her thighs, as he savoured her sex. She played with his hair as he tasted her.

"This is wonderful ---- with the music.", she cooed. "But..... if only it were in French!"

"The language of love..... hmmm....", he exhaled, looking up at her. He let his sensual appetite extend to the softness of her stomach, the curves of her breasts, and her tender neck, until his face met hers, and their bodies joined.

"Yes.... the singers are more passionate.... their words sound beautiful, always...", she murmured. She slid her hands along his rib cage as he went deeper within her lively frame. She could feel his breathing, his heart about to explode. No doubt his body could feel similar motions within her body.

"Words.... I can't concentrate.... on the words right....now!", he breathed, barely able to laugh, although he knew it was funny. He felt her moving with him, feeling the urgency within her sex. She was a great woman; she was lively, amusing, chatty, even during love-making.....

Gen gripped the top of the backboard, pushing her frame harder against him. She bit her lip, her orgasm building within her. The sensations surrounding her were chaotic; as she was about to climax, her head buzzed with the songs emitting from the radio nearby, just as if a mosquito was fluttering about inside her ear. The songs were the usual; the English stuff. She never thought of English songs when she thought of using music for seduction.

For a fleeting moment, she realized something. Music was the background, never the forefront. Music was never really appreciated by those she knew. Bland copies of bad songs played from faulty loudspeakers in malls; cheap jingles sold useless products in commercials; bombastic music decorated movie scenes. Music was just time-filler. Even now. The radio didn't have to play. It could have went off the air.

"Oh.... Genevieve!", he moaned, calling her by her true and authentic name. His tounge even pronoucned the name in its proper accent. As if he were her French lover, just as she is his now. She felt his thighs press harder and faster against her inner thighs, sensing his powerful climax.

"Oui.....oui...", she smiles, playfully interjecting a new language to the passion. Her mouth weakened, unable to stay closed, while her eyes fell closed; her body surrendered. She squeezed his body as her orgasm pounded inside her trembling frame. Afterwards, she lay still, exhausted, and no longer cold......

*

"Gen...... you were wonderful....", Frank breathed, as the two rested languidly beneath the rumpled sheets.

"Gen? What happened to Genevieve???", she exaggerated. "Do you realize that you're sleeping with a star?"

"Hmm... what do you mean?", he grinned.

"I was named - no, inspired - by Genevieve Bujoud!", she grandly stated.

Pause. His eyes looked up, as if to magically find knowledge about this Miss Bujoud. "....who's that?"

She playfully taps him on the head. "You mean you've never heard of this girl - she's only a famous Quebecois actress!"

"I..... I don't know much about that -- sorry.", he said tenderly.

"Oh, young people today!", she giggled. "They don't know anything."

They readjusted themselves so they laid on their sides, looking at each other.

"But don't you think that French sound better when associated with love.", Gen grinned, tapping Frank on the chin.

"Yes..... well, when you were speaking French, that is......I doubt I`d be paying attention to the music, though.", he admitted. "Speaking of which.......do you listen to a lot of French music."

"Sometimes.... but there really isn't a lot of places around her that sell it; all my French CDs are old.", she replied forlornly. "Go to a record store around here, and you`d be paying twice as much if you even find a French CD. It's robbery."

"Too bad....", he stated.

"I find that the English music, though.... is more direct.", she emphatically pronounced. A rap song began playing on the radio. "Right there, that example of music; Eminem, he`s really brutal with his words, and I kind of like that. I know...."

"You like Eminem!?", he interrupted, somewhat shocked. " Wouldn't he be your worst enemy!"

"Well, I really wouldn't consider him my worst enemy! He doesn't know me for one .....", she grins, making a jab at those who consider strange artists' words to be personal attacks. "...so why should I feel offended. He says what he feels like, and I still go about my day as usual...."

Frank guffaws in an almost adolescent tone. "So then it eases your mind when he talks about raping his wife?"

"No!", feigning shock. "But, in a way, it's good to just say what you feel like sometimes. And somehow it seems more..... frank..... in English. French is soft, beautiful; it never sounds as ugly, as rough, as it does in English. Certainly not to those who don't speak French, anyway."

"So... what music do you like? English or French?"

"Both! It's all good. I just don't think that I have to define myself in terms of one language, one culture - I'm me, so what....."

"So obviously, you're not a separatist, then!"

"No, of course not.....besides, listen to my accent, how French is it?!" Gen had to laugh to herself about how unusual this conversation was in the situation she and him were in at this moment. "..... but, nevertheless, I've seen both sides of the picture. And the only problem I see is that of people not being comfortable with themselves. They have to let everybody know, damn it,", mocking that particular ideology. "....that they are this way and nothing else. Anyone who is not like them is a hindrance."

"I know that sort of stuff floated around during the referendums.", Frank understood. "But is it really that extreme?"

"Yes!", she spoke emphatically. "I ought to know..... dad was like that. I've lived that life; my dad tried so hard to drill those ideas into us. But he wasn't cruel." She paused. "He tried to set things right, in his view. And I'm grateful for all that he did. But I really don't want to be that way. I don't want to tell people who they ought to be. And I don't want to tell myself that I can only be a certain way. I`m just me - Genevieve, some people call me Gen, I speak both English and French flawlessly,", said with mocking immodesty. "...and I listen to a lot of music," She then gives him a lusty look. "...... and I'm a real bad girl!!"

She gives him a vigorous kiss on the mouth, before letting her head rest upon his shoulder.

"Thanks for a fun evening, Gen....", Frank said, rubbing her arm reflexively.

".....no problem...,", she cooed. She was no longer cold, even though the heater was still disabled. The presence of her date warmed her.

The two barely attempted speech as of this point, merely relaxing and allowing their minds to roam. Frank eventually went to sleep first, while Gen continued her dreamy half-sleep. Her eyes floated up to the ceiling again, in thought. Her thoughts turned to the present, and to the things which made her happy, which in turn formed a secure image of herself.

*

"The date! So how did it go?", Tisha wondered. "Hopefully you weren't too tired to enjoy it..."

"I had a lot of fun...", Gen smiled reverently. "You made a good call.... we were perfectly matched for pool, at least. And you know what, he actually called me Genevieve! So very polite, and elegant!" She wanted to say that , even if she was rather timid on revealing its proper context.

"He treated you like the classy lady you are, then?", Tisha said proudly. "But do you expect him to always call you that?"

"No, not really....", Gen said relieved. "It sounds ...... too formal, really. Gen sounds much more casual. I think I`d be driven nuts if he kept calling me Genevieve all the time. The name isn't a big deal - I don't feel any less of a person if everyone called me Gen!"

They laugh, as Tisha begins: "Well, then, you won't feel diminished if I call you Sally! Okay, Sally, we better quicken the pace....", as she got off of her chair. ".....because our lunch break ends in ten minutes!"

Gen follows her friend's lead, and the two rapidly return to their jobs. Outside, the two women faced the crowd of bitter cold gathering rudely between the coffee shop and the call centre. The cold pushed them into feeling more vitalized, more tolerant of waking up to the real world. A car parked into an empty spot near the walking women. Before the driver turned off his car, he was turning down his music, and Gen, at least, was rather intrigued at the driver's choice of tunes. French rap -- what an innovation. Her brain was disorientated, and she was unable to make a sober judgement on the music's merit. She was about to mention her curious pleasure to the driver as he got out of his car, before she swallowed her words, sensing the potential discomfort.