Uh-uh.

It doesn’t matter who I’m speaking to, I owe them a better response than that.

Especially the woman I somehow convinced to be my wife. Those half-formed words just flew out of me, ahead of my thoughts—and the way I recoiled like that.

The martini glass makes a definitive clanking sound as I set it down hard, kind of like a judge banging a gavel to regain order. The idea is to demonstrate that I’m upset with myself for the way I just reacted to my wife’s touch.

But she also recoiled, shortly after I did, and my attempt at making a point may be pointless by now.

A strong moment of tenderness overtakes me. Seeing Margarita’s eyes uncomfortably scanning the floorboards, all I want to do is care for her, to take her dejection and discomfort away.

It feels kind of familiar—not passionate the way that it once was not too long ago, but warm and loving. I think that’s a good sign. I’m compelled to hug Margarita.

At least hold her tight and absorb…I don’t know.

She comes into my embrace fairly easily. Still clutching her own martini glass by the stem. She doesn’t wrap her arms back around me, but she leans in.

Okay…this is okay, right?

This is what it’s supposed to be about.

This is comfort.

Margarita’s not looking too comfortable after she backs away, though. She’s still studying the grains in the wood of our floor with a distressingly keen interest.

Now I need to win back her attention. And I don’t know if I have it in me.

Quick, think of something before you lose her for good.

“Hey!”

She looks up—that’s a start.

Now what?

Jesus fucking Christ.

The one thing I’ve fought for, since the moment I first caught this woman’s cloudy hazel eyes in the scarf section of Bergdorf’s, was to earn her attention and keep it.

And that script we seemed to be reading from, that easy way I could talk to her…I just lost it.

Quick, think of something else.

Maybe I can try to erase the damage by repeating that out-of-nowhere moment of shoulder-based intimacy.

Okay, take a deep breath, lean in nice and slow, take a good look at that pastel shawl she’s wearing. There’s a loose thread just above her shoulder. Bingo.

“Hey, mon cheri amour, you’ve just got a little something on your…allow me to get that for you.”

My eyes take a leisurely trip to find Margarita’s hazel bits of beauty, and my hand moves gently, smoothly towards the tiny strand by her shoulder, reaching delicately, almost grasping it…

And she jumps backwards.

“Ah! Ah! What are you doing? You startled me!”

The look we share in the next, tense moment is one of confusion, fading into a sort of understanding.

“Thomas, I-I’m…sorry. I’m just not used to you, out of nowhere, coming up to touch my clothes like that.”

“I’m not used to you trying to touch my clothes, either, oh dearest and loveliest one,” I say with a half-smile, trying to inject something light into this sad attempt at conversation.

Margarita shakes her head with just a touch of franticness.

“Okay, well, we won’t be trying that again, I guess.”

“I don’t see why not,” I shrug, “now that the shock has…”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

This time we both jump at the sudden, thunderous roar coming from the hallway.

Our curious, mildly fearful eyes find each other, and Margarita and I do a quiet, tandem little trot to the door to get a closer listen.

The hallway floors are carpeted to prevent neighborly footfalls from disturbing the peace, but there’s a pair of feet outside that just won’t be denied. They’re loud, slamming insistently against the carpet, clomping their way past our door to the other end of the hallway…

Then back.

Margarita and I choose the exact same moment to look at each other.

“Is it…more performance art?” She’s whispering, and she gets even quieter with those last couple words.

“You don’t need to whisper.”

There it is.

There it fucking is.

Wherever the fuck I left that script, I’ve fucking found it.

Margarita’s eyes are peering into mine, and what I need to say and do—and not say—could not be fucking clearer.

As the angry feet stomp past our door again, I tear that thread right off Margarita’s shawl, and when the yelling outside starts up again, our lips collide and our tongues entangle like fucking crazy.

“I can’t believe he…I can’t believe I…how could I be so fucking stupid? Again?” the woman outside shrieks.

“I don’t think that’s performance art.” We’re both panting, frenzied, after ending that mad fucking kiss. I’m taking the opportunity to explain whatever the fuck might be happening outside. “That’s a young woman going through some shit.”

“Fuck!” More shrieking.

“Young woman?” Margarita whispers. “You’re young! We’re young! At least too young to be acting like…like…”

She doesn’t need to think of the words, because our tongues are already working with each other again to invent a new kind of language.

“What are you doing on this floor? What are you so upset about?” There’s a man’s voice now, but I couldn’t fucking care less.

“I’m not ffff…I’m not falling for any of this shit, anymore,” the girl says. “It’s such clear bullshit.”

“This is so out of nowhere,” the man continues. “Weren’t we just…”

“Okay, I’m still whispering, because I want no part of whatever that is in any way.”

“They can’t hear us, my love, they don’t ca—”

“What on Earth is going on in this building today?”

“Just people living their lives,” I reply with a shrug. “The same as any other day.”

Margarita’s eyes dart towards the window across the living room, and then back at me. “What if I don’t want this to be like any other day?”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, Thomas. Let’s go into the other room so we can get some peace and fucking quiet and talk about things.”