“Come on, Emilia…”

The one voice is fading, thankfully, down the corridor.

“Fuck! I mean f...I mean, I don’t know.”

But her voice—I’d assume she’s named Emilia, but who even knows anymore—stays fixed just outside our door. Even after she finishes yelling, her voice is so loud, it’s making the entire hallway quiver. The latest in a series of realizations to hit me is that our bedroom isn’t going to be far enough to escape this little show being produced in the hallway.

“I need to deal with this, Thomas. Just meet me in the other room.”

“It’ll deal with itself. And which other room?”

“Oh, for…never goddamn mind.”

For the second time in the last half hour, I throw open the apartment door to deal with whatever bizarre scene is trying to play itself out outside. If the last one was wearing pajamas, I fully expect to see an even weirder costume in the hallway this time—if not a full-on goddamn Halloween parade.

“The peephole could save you a lot of trouble next time, my love.”

“Other room, Thomas.”

While growling that response to the lurking spouse behind me, I come within a mohair scarf’s breadth of gasping at what’s in the hallway in front of me.

“Oh, I was expecting to see something much less normal.”

The young w…the woman staring down the corridor turns her head to me.

“Excuse me?”

“Sigh. I apologize, dear. Things have been quite...lively around here lately. I’m sure I’ve seen you around here before. How good to see a familiar face!”

Maybe-Emilia, who I have seen around the Bradford lobby before, is now looking me up and down—and trying to suppress a laugh.

“Are you in character for a play or something? Tony and Tina’s Wedding or some kinda shit like that?”

“Oh…no, is that what was happening earlier out here?”

“Uh, no. I was just having a fi—an argument with this guy…I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore. I can’t help but assume that it’s always gonna be bullshit, you know? Like, I can’t let myself keep falling for the same old…”

“It’s not part of the pajama thing, then?”

Emilia can’t suppress her laughter anymore. “Lady, I appreciate the laugh right now. Good luck with your play or whatever.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I think it means I can close the door without being too rude. Which is exactly what I do.

“She’s the one doing the performance thing, right?” I ask Thomas.

“I’m quite confident that was real and also that you just slammed the door in her face. But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”

The smile sneaks up on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from grinning, feeling the mischief spread across my face. That roguish feeling is taking over me entirely when I turn to my husband, a bit amused himself with my behavior.

“So, Thomas, as the French say, are we going to go into the other fucking room or not?”

“It’s quiet now. We can talk here.”

“Can we, smart guy?”

“Now you think I’m smart?”

“Not smart enough to spot sarcasm…”

“You know our martinis are still waiting for us, right? Why don’t we make that Step One?”

There’s that feeling of mischief again. It’s like it’s in the air, and it has us both captured. It’s clear in Thomas’s smile—and I’m sure in mine, as well.

“Step One in what? Towards what?”

My curiosity is, admittedly, overwhelming—to the point I may be running a slight temperature.

Is that a normal symptom of curiosity? No wonder it’s so dangerous to felines.

Yet my husband’s refusing to indulge my question. Silently, he takes a single step towards me.

That isn’t helping to solve my curiosity one bit. In fact, my feverishness is suddenly getting worse.

“Goddammit, Thomas.”

Out of frustration, I grab that smiling face of his and pull it towards me, not stopping until my lips are softly touching his ear.

“Don’t like answering questions, do you?” I whisper, before giving his earlobe a firm little bite.

And my husband still doesn’t answer the question. All he does is lean down slightly to adorn my neck with slow, lingering kisses. Thomas is holding both my arms as his lips float up towards mine, and we spend a lengthy few moments returning to where we were before the last hallway interruption.

My curiosity-induced fever is at an all-time high by the time we stop, but I don’t feel ill in the least.

“To answer your question,” Thomas whispers, at long last, “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Wouldn’t you?”

“I think so, Thomas. I think so.”

“Our cocktails await, my love.”

“And your olives…”

“Oh! How could I forget?”

Thomas lets go of me and makes a beeline back towards the bar.

“I’m quite pleased to learn how olives still interest you above everything, and I do mean everything else.”

To be fair and honest, I’m very much looking forward to returning to my own drink as well as I drift to the bar.

“I’m smart enough to spot that sarcasm, my love. Or am I?”

My feverishness recedes, and a sense of comfort washes over me as we retake our usual spots at the bar.

“Are you asking about the nature of my comment?” I ask, picking up my martini glass by its stem.

“If I were, what would you say?”

My drink is still nicely chilled as I take a sip. So much is happening in such a short time.

“I suppose I was being straightforward, Thomas. I do enjoy your quirks, and I’m always finding new ones.”

Thomas demolishes the last of his olives in one bite.

“Good to know I’m not a bore.”

“Ohhhh—I didn’t say that.”

My husband startles me, again, by letting out a few forceful coughs before gulping down everything that remains in his glass.

“I just choked on my fucking olives. That’s not boring, I hope.”

“No. Nothing you do is boring to me.”

“But that’s not what you just said, dearest.”

“What can I say? I think what I think, but sometimes...”

“Sometimes you think I’m boring?”

“Sometimes shit just comes out all fucking weird when I try to say it.”

Thomas drops his empty glass. It shatters on the Brazilian walnut floor.

And he stares at me, wordlessly.

“That’s…that’s my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”

“Really? That?”

“I’m in love with you.”

“I should hope so.”

“And I’m tired of being a bore, so...”

“Okay…wait. Do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m ready to try some new ways of expressing it. You’ve still got that leather overnight bag, right? What were you keeping in there, again?”

“Let’s go to the other fucking room already.”