They argued on the way to the party. Tonight, it was his driving on the turns through snow and rain, but always it was something. Mark could feel Melanie scowling beside him. She was gripping Alina’s directions, which led out of town and into the hills, and he took them there. When they reached the address, Mark calmed himself by counting the cars parked along the road: twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. He squeezed into the last spot against the stone wall. The road was steep, and Mark set the brake hard. Rain pattered on the roof. They sat in the dark and stewed.
Ahead of them, the road made a sharp turn. It shot through an arch in the stone wall and was gone. I’ll bet that’s some country, Mark thought.
He threw his silly hat in the back seat.
“I’m not wearing this.”
“Wait—” Melanie had flipped down the visor mirror, and she was adding fresh umber lipstick to her mouth. Her nails were the same dark gleaming color. She daubed the color onto her lips, brought her lips together, and sealed it.
“Come on,” Mark said. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Be civil, okay? Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Of course.”
“And I suppose I should warn you: Alina is, like, really beautiful.”
“So?”
“No, I mean, she’s really really really beautiful.”
“What the fuck.”
“Just don’t gaze at her all gaga, okay?”
“Thanks for the god-damn warning.”
Mark climbed out. He helped Melanie out. Walking along the stone wall, they found the iron gate and went in. Alina’s house was nestled among the blue spruce trees. Christmas lights hung tree to tree, glowing red and warm. Woodsmoke scented the air, and the rain pattered. Mark and Melanie did not hold hands up the path. They dodged puddles and mushy snow. Melanie knocked on the oak door, and they stood apart from each other on broad flagstones.
No one came to the door. Maybe they should give up and go home. The kids were at Grandma’s. Make-up sex? All sex was make-up sex now.
“This place is amazing,” Melanie said. “I love it.”
The house was built out of klinker bricks, jagged and knobby. Copper trim skirted the windows. A lattice design of leaves and vines wound along the trim, hammered out by hand. Mark could see the tiny mallet marks.
He said, “In Bosnia I stayed in a house like this. There was—”
“Don’t tell me about Bosnia.” Melanie peered at the copper designs.
“For Christ’s sake, Mel.”
“They did all their own work, you know. Alina’s an architect and—I always forget his name—anyway, he’s a metal smith. Look.” Melanie touched a copper sash inlaid with a flower design. The copper was shiny from so many people touching it. She smiled to herself and touched it again.
Mark found a different part of the house to look at. The jagged bricks. The hard angles. This made him feel serious and focused. It seemed familiar. He tried to make sense of the familiar feeling. In Bosnia there was this house, and we…
“Mark, do you get what I’m saying? They did this. All of this. Do you have any idea how much work this must have been?” Melanie was frowning at him.
“I get what you’re saying, okay? Now hold still.” Mark lifted his hand to Melanie’s chin, and with his fingertip he daubed her lips. It was a familiar touch, but lately familiar had meant merely ordinary. Melanie didn’t move, but her eyes followed the motion of Mark’s hand. Her frown relaxed. Mark’s fingertip came away with an umber stain. He said, “You don’t need that stuff to be pretty.”
Melanie’s lips parted, and she took a tiny breath. She looked lovely and sad.
Mark wondered when lovely and sad had become the same.
“What time is it?” Melanie said.
“Ten o’clock. Two more hours to go.”
“We are so late.” She frowned again.
“Zoom zoom,” Mark muttered. His eyes followed the copper trim, and he touched a dull place no one had touched before. It felt slippery and cool. He had known it would. Familiar. In Bosnia, we—
A woman—Alina?—opened the door.
“Omigod! You made it!”
Music and light and the heat burst from the doorway. Alina smiled broadly. Her dark eyes sparkled. She was beautiful. Her wavy hair fell across one side of her face, and she tucked it back and smiled. Her dark eyes took you in. She wore a black sleeveless cocktail dress. Her face was rosy, maybe from the heat. She held a martini glass. Two silver bracelets slid down her wrist as she raised her glass. She slid them back, and they jangled, light and thin.
Alina kissed Melanie, then looked at Mark and smiled. Her eyes were steady. Mark returned the look. He felt himself becoming serious, and he hoped it didn’t show.
“Alina, this is my husband, Mark.”
“I’ve heard so much about you.” Alina held her martini to the side, and with her free arm she hugged Mark warmly. Her hair brushed his cheek. Her hair smelled like lavender.
“Where’s the bar?” asked Mark.
“Ooh, I like him already!” Alina’s arm was still around him.
Alina showed Mark and Melanie to the liquor on the sidebar, then slid away. She moved around the room, kissing, laughing, touching people on the arm.
Melanie said, “She’s Romanian or something.”
“She’s something, alright.”
Mark and Melanie each mixed a drink with Kahlua, milk, and rum. They sat on a brown leather couch and watched the other guests, none of whom Mark knew. Melanie had said there would be a lot of architect types. People were standing in clumps, talking and laughing, holding their drinks at waist level, taking it slow. None of them seemed to notice how beautiful the room was. God-damn beautiful. The woodwork was beautiful. The copper trim around the fireplace was beautiful. The high ceiling was beautiful, with copper tiles hammered in delicate ridges.
Alina was roving with a tray of amber demitasse glasses. People made gasps of pleasure as she brought the tray to them. Alina beamed.
Melanie leaned close to Mark. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Yeah, she’s cute alright.”
“No, I mean beautiful.” Melanie took a gulp from her drink. “Isn’t she, like, one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen? Perfect body, lush bouncy black hair. And that face. She doesn’t even need makeup and she’s totally stunning.”
“Yeah, she’s beautiful.”
“Come on. Why can’t you just say it? She’s fucking gorgeous. You see one or two women like that in your whole life. Like your little Bosnian friend, what-was-her-name. A natural beauty.”
“Lyubov,” Mark muttered. It was true: Alina really was gorgeous. Lyubov was another kind of gorgeous. Lyubov. Mark hadn’t thought about her in years.
“Look at Alina. Wouldn’t you like to do her?”
He sipped his drink. What was the right answer? He sipped some more.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Come on, Mel.”
“Come on, yourself. Be a man. I’m so sick of you hemming and hawing.”
“Okay, fine. Hell yeah. I’d do her. Definitely. I’d bring her close and I’d—”
“Fuck you, Mark.”
“I did Lyubov, too, you know.”
“Fuck you.”
He finished off his cocktail and watched Alina laughing, sipping her amber demi glass, hugging her guests. Her hair was parted on the side, and it fell over one eye, and she was tucking it back, and her beautiful face lit up, radiant. He’d do her, all right.
No, he wouldn’t.
“So where’s her husband?”
“He hates these things.”
“So where is he?”
“In back. There’s a blacksmith shop. They built that too. He likes to show it off to people who appreciate that kind of thing. You wouldn’t like it.”
“If you say so.”
“Omigod, there’s Alina’s sister. I’m going to go talk to her.” Melanie handed Mark her glass. Umber lipstick on the rim.
“You’re going out to smoke, aren’t you?”
“Where’s my little purse?”
“Don’t forget your little sweater.”
Melanie stood up, grabbed her purse and her black cardigan, and left Mark on the couch. She joined a woman across the room. The woman was no Alina, for sure. Hell no. Melanie and the woman kissed on the cheek and disappeared out the front door. The gush of cool air felt good. Mark turned to the window and watched the women wander down the path beneath the red lights. He saw a spark, then an orange glow.
Mark felt the couch shift, and he turned. Alina had sat next to him. She was holding two amber glasses. She smiled. She leaned close to him. Their arms touched.
“So.”
Mark took one of the glasses. “Melanie’s out with your sister.”
“Oh, God, they’re not smoking, are they?” Alina turned and peered out the window. Her hair fell forward, wavy and black. She tucked it back.
Mark said, “Melanie likes to be a little scandalous.”
Mark and Alina stared out at the two women. Melanie saw them watching, and she turned away.
“My sister. Good grief. Back in Ukraine, she used to—”
“I thought you were Romanian.”
“Yes. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“No, it isn’t. Boundaries shift around.”
Alina laughed.
Mark swept his arm around the room. “This place! I can’t believe it. It’s so beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“You must love this. I mean, you have made something to love. And all this copper.”
“Oh, do you do metal work?” She leaned closer.
“Hell no. I mean, no. It just reminds me. I was deployed in Bosnia, and we stayed in a house like this. That’s all I’m saying. God, I miss that. You’re not supposed to miss that sort of thing, but I do.”
“When you’re married, you’re not supposed to miss anything.” Alina’s dark eyes were locked on his. He looked away, but her felt her eyes trying to pull him back.
He said, “I’m talking about the war. You don’t miss a war.”
She said, “Was there a woman?”
“Excuse me?”
“I have to ask. Was a woman involved?”
“No. I mean yes.”
Mark told Alina all about Bosnia, and she looked directly at him, and she asked all the right questions about all the right things. Her eyes, and her smile, and her hair across her cheek, and her fingers tucking it back, and her other hand touching his knee, and her bracelets tinkling—Mark told her all about it. He told her about Lyubov. He told her about the stone house with copper trim and the smith’s shop in back. He told her all of it, the night, the snowy rain, the warm red lights in the trees, the old stone wall, the road through the arch in the wall, the NATO white APCs rumbling past. He had been an aide on a general’s staff. Never did see where those white APCs were going.
He said, “To me, it isn’t really a story.”
“Yes, it is. You had something.”
“Excuse me?”
“You had—you have—something that no one can take from you.”
“I don’t have anything.”
Alina laid her arm on the back of the couch. Her face rested on her arm. She closed her eyes. What was she thinking? She opened her eyes and looked back at Mark. She turned toward the window.
“They’re out there a long time,” Mark said.
“A second smoke?”
“Less scandalous. Just unhealthy.”
She laughed, took his wrist, and squeezed. “I just love both of you!”
At midnight, everyone gathered around the television in the den. The room became hot and crowded. Mark hated standing tightly in a group of people he didn’t know. Melanie squeezed in and stood by Mark. She wore a plastic tiara that said 2005. She looked like a princess. Was she smiling? They watched the ball drop in Times Square, and everyone cheered and kissed. Mark and Melanie kissed. Alina’s husband had come in, wearing a t-shirt and a shop apron, and they kissed too. Alina smiled at her husband, and she laughed, and she held him tight. She kissed him again and rested her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes and smiled.
Mark felt Melanie tug on his sleeve. “Why don’t you just say it?”
“Would it be any better if I did?”
“You’d be more of a man if you said it. You want her.”
“The hell.”
“I can tell. What did you two talk about anyway? Did you talk about our kids? No, wait, I know: you told one of your goddamned Bosnia stories.”
“I don’t have any Bosnia stories.”
“Because you were just an errand boy.”
“Adjutant.”
“Whatever. Did you tell her about fucking that girl? Lyubov? Lobotomy? Whatever her name was.”
“No.”
“You can tell Alina, but you can’t tell me.” Melanie began to cry.
Alina saw them. She grinned and came over and hugged them and exclaimed a Happy New Year. Her cheeks were pink. She did not let go.
Melanie smiled and looked away. “Omigod, Alina, you are always so pretty.”
“Oh, no, stop that.” She loosened her arm around Melanie.
“No, you’re just beautiful. Your brown eyes, your sassy hair and…”
Melanie was talking too loud, and people nearby turned to listen. They looked at Alina as if to verify what Melanie had said, but then they looked back at Melanie and listened.
“And you don’t even wear makeup, or just a little. I don’t know. You’re gorgeous. And where did you get those bracelets?”
Alina held out the bracelets. “Steve made them for me.”
“Omigod, that’s so nice. I just… I mean… You’re just so beautiful.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Mark took Melanie’s hand and tugged her away. “Come on.”
“Ooh, Mark and Melanie!”
“What?”
“Where’s your sweater? Come on.”
Mark led Melanie to the car. She tugged against his hand, but when they came to the car, he kissed her long, hard, crushing. He pressed his hand to her breast, then slid it down to her hip. Mark knew she understood when her body softened into his.
They drove through the arch in the stone wall. Farther. Into the night. Around tight turns, fast, slippery, squealing. It was old farmland, orchards and vineyards and hay, separated by tired fences. A bridge crossed an irrigation ditch. Right-angle turns marked the corners of pastures. They went farther. In the rear-view mirror, the red glow in the trees became smaller, a glimmering far away. They left the rain, and the road crossed a field under stars.
Mark pulled over as far as the car could fit. Mark and Melanie fucked in the back seat. Mark wasn’t thinking about Melanie, he wasn’t thinking about Alina, he wasn’t thinking about Lyubov; he tried to not think about anyone. His body was heavy against Melanie’s, but she lifted and made everything light. Even that observation was too much thinking. Thinking made it more than fucking, and fucking was all it was. But it was something. He wanted them to have something.
When it was over with, Melanie cuddled against Mark and smiled. Mark fixed her tiara. Rain pattered the rooftop. The drive back to the party was long, and it was quiet, just the rain and snow and the slapping of the windshield wipers. Mark drove slowly. He didn’t want to frighten Melanie. He felt bad about his rapid driving earlier. Melanie’s hand gripped his hand. Darkness made it hard to find the way.
They found the red glow through the trees.
Mark parked the car in the last space along the wall. Melanie fixed her umber lipstick.
“Isn’t Alina beautiful? You can say it now. I won’t be hurt. You can say it, and I won’t be hurt.”
Mark didn’t say anything.
“Is she more beautiful than me? If you could have me or her, who would it be?” […]
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Evan Morgan Williams is the author of three collections of stories: Thorn (BkMk Press, 2014, winner of the Chandra Prize), Canyons (self-published, 2018), and Stories of the New West (Main Street Rag Press, 2021). He has published over 75 stories in literary journals including Kenyon Review, Witness, Zyzzyva, and Alaska Quarterly Review. He holds an MFA from the University of Montana (1991), and an Oregon Literary Fellowship (2024). He is a three-time mentor in AWP’s Writer to Writer program.