"I'M—" she hesitates. "I'm bisexual. Which means I'm attracted to men and women. I think the word for it in Greek is—amfifylófilos."

"Oh." I nod. "We don't see things as black-and-white as that. There isn't all of that—terminology, you know? Can you tell me all of them?" So that I can find a way to label myself. I'd never thought of putting a word to it before, the love I feel for women—but the thought of having a way to describe it that belongs exclusively to me and other women like me makes me giddy.

"A lot of people in... in my sphere of influence, I guess, are trying to push for us to see it like that, too. They think labels are counterproductive and divide us more as a community, and they try to push for a world without them. Which I think is a valid point. If someone doesn't want to label themselves, then more power to them! But for me, personally, my label is really... important to me. It gives me something to latch onto. Before I came out to anyone it felt like it was the only thing tying me to the community at all."

"Come out?"

"Oh, it's a saying we have—coming out of the closet. When you tell someone that you're gay. Also can be used for other things, but I wouldn't. It just sounds weird. You're not coming out as a sports fan. You're just an asshole. But back to all of the different labels. I really don't think I could go through them all, there's so many, and the definitions are constantly evolving as our concept of gender and sexuality changes. And there's this whole debate over whether or not so many of these identities belong in the community. Like, since I'm bisexual, there are some people that don't think I'm gay enough. Like, it's ridiculous. I can try to come up with a list for you, when I have my phone later." She digs her toes into the sand. "So, are you...?"

"Yes." I nod. "I think I am, how do you say it? Lesbianist. No men for me. Just women. But I don't know if that's what I'd want to call myself yet, we never had any of these words back home. But women are... women, you know?"

Marisol laughs, and her laugh is the purest sound in the world, like waves crashing, like fire crackling in a hearth. I don't know what comes over me. I reach over and take hold of her hand. It's soft, so soft I can feel the roughness of my own against hers and want to apologize for all the scars and calluses.

"You think you're a lesbian," she corrects me. "I vibe with that."

"Can I tell you something?"

Marisol looks as if she's choking on air. "Of course."