[S · Me] The rain over this southern city had fallen all day and hadn’t stopped by nightfall. When I pulled the car into the underground garage of that tower, D’s wife was touching up her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Tonight she wore that black slip dress, thin straps resting on her shoulders like two shadows that might slide off at any moment. She snapped the mirror shut, turned her face to me, and asked, nervous? I said no. In truth my palms were damp. This wasn’t the first time we’d toyed with the idea — but it was the first time we’d actually walked up to someone else’s door.
[D’s Wife · My Wife] As the elevator rose, I stared at the flickering floor numbers, my heartbeat climbing floor by floor along with them. I’d picked this dress on purpose — black, long, hugging the line of my waist, one step and a length of leg slipped out through the slit. I knew what I was doing. No one had pushed me into coming; I wanted to see for myself whether, once you crossed that line, the sky really wouldn’t fall. He squeezed my hand and I squeezed back, my fingertips ice cold. The door opened, warm golden light spilled out, along with a faint sweetness of incense.
[J] The doorbell rang while I was uncorking the second bottle. I opened the door and the first thing I saw was that black dress, and only then the woman inside it. When she smiled her eyes curved, and her whole air was a deep, quiet elegance — no fuss, no noise, yet impossible to look away from. The man behind her was steadier than I’d imagined, his handshake exactly the right pressure. I ushered them in and called over my shoulder, the guests are here. From the kitchen came the crisp click of high heels on the floor, one step after another, coming closer.
[J’s Wife · Me] When I came out of the kitchen, I slowed my steps on purpose. Tonight I wore that sheer white shirt, with only a pale bra beneath it; under the light the lines of my shoulders and collarbone showed through, half-hidden, half-revealed. It wasn’t as if I’d never worn less — but this kind of half-covered, half-shown teased far more than anything fully bared. I saw the woman in the black dress freeze for a moment, then smile at me, and I smiled back. Two women held each other’s gaze across a dining table, each understanding perfectly the unspoken something in the other’s eyes.
[S · Me] The table held a few simple cold dishes and a large platter of fruit, but the star was the wine. J had opened two reds, the deep crimson leaving arcs down the sides of the glasses. We started with idle talk — the weather, the traffic, this city’s nightlife. After a couple of rounds the words softened and the laughter grew. I noticed the tips of D’s wife’s ears had gone a little red — her tell that she’d drunk herself just tipsy, and her tell that she’d let herself relax. She didn’t say much tonight, but each time she looked up she was watching that couple, curiosity in her eyes, and something else besides.
[J’s Wife · Me] Halfway through the wine I reached over to refill the woman in the black dress, my fingertips brushing the back of her hand without meaning to, and she didn’t pull away. I said, that dress really suits you. She glanced down at herself and said, he chose the occasion, I chose the outfit to match. Her voice was very soft, the ends of her words carrying a slight after-wine stickiness. The two of us leaned close and laughed quietly while the men clinked glasses at the other end. The light stretched each shadow long and layered them together; the red wine on the table trembled with fine points of light. The mood was like a pot of water kept warm — not boiling yet, but the flame beneath had already been lit.
[J] I watched my wife and that woman lean closer and closer, and the secret thing inside me began to burn. This game was mine to propose, and it was the four of us who, through countless half-joking probes, had inched our way to tonight. It wasn’t that I didn’t mind — it was that I knew all too well what I minded and what I craved. I passed S a cigarette and we walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city’s rain still fell, the neon dissolving into blurry clumps of light on the wet glass. I said, don’t rush, the night is long. He gave a small smile and said nothing, but I knew he understood.
[D’s Wife · My Wife] I’m not sure who started it, but the talk circled around to "trust." J’s wife said with a smile, do you dare to play a game? She said it lightly, yet all four of us went quiet for half a beat. She said, it’s simple — put on a blindfold, and by hand and lips alone, tell which one is your own husband. My hand around the wine glass paused. I knew the game was anything but simple: guess right and it’s intimacy; guess wrong, and the rule is — if you guess wrong, you have to accept the one you mistook. The room went still for an instant, and then I heard myself say, all right.
[S · Me] I watched D’s wife say that "all right," and my heart skipped a beat. We exchanged a glance; there was no flinching in her eyes, only a small kindled brightness. J went and fetched two silk scarves, black and soft. He handed me one and kept the other. The rules were repeated: the woman blindfolded, seated on the sofa, the two men walking up before her in silence, using hands and lips to let her tell them apart. No talking the whole time, no perfume or any hint. Guess wrong — accept the other. As those words were spoken, not one of us laughed; the air was all taut strings.
[J’s Wife · Me] I volunteered to go first. I sat down on that wide sofa, leaned back, closed my eyes, and felt the black scarf settle lightly over them; the world went dark all at once. With sight cut off, every other sense woke — I heard the soft clink of a wine glass being set down, heard the shift of footsteps on the carpet, heard the rise and fall of my own breathing. My hands rested on my knees, trembling faintly — not from fear, but anticipation. I didn’t know whether the first to come before me would be my husband, or the man in the dark shirt I’d met only a few hours ago. That not-knowing drew everything below my belly tight.
[S · Me] J shot me a look, signaling me to go first. I softened my steps, rounded the coffee table, and came before the blindfolded J’s wife. Only up close did I notice her lashes trembling faintly at the edge of the scarf, the white shirt rising and falling with her breath, the pale outline showing through. Should I really touch her? The rules said to touch. I drew a deep breath, reached out, and let my fingertips land, ever so lightly, on the back of her hand. Her whole body stiffened, and then that hand turned over and met my fingertips of its own accord. That single touch was like a current shooting from my fingertips up my spine, and only then did I understand: from the very start, this game had no way back.
[D’s Wife · My Wife] I watched from the side — watched that stranger of a woman in my line of sight, blindfolded, touched lightly by my husband’s hand, watched how her fingertips wound around his of their own will. Strangely, there was none of the jealousy I’d expected in me; in its place was something hotter, deeper — I was thinking that in a little while it would be my turn, that the blindfolded one would be me, and the hands that came before me might be J’s, hands still entirely strange to me. Just the thought of it, and I felt my body, under that black dress, go soft a step ahead of me. Outside the window the rain still fell, but inside this room the snow was melting, inch by inch.