Marriage Matters

Thirty-three

Kristine leaned back in her black metal chair at a corner cafe. The hotel was right next door, a charming structure made from dark gray stone. Next to it loomed a building that had to be at least eight hundred years old, with its stained yellow walls and faded blue shutters.

“I love it out here,” Kristine told Ethan. “In fact, I think I love everything about Rome.” Kristine had been having the time of her life but something was happening, something between her and Ethan. Maybe it was the fact that she was spending so much time with him or because being in Italy felt like her life back home didn’t exist, but Kristine had found herself becoming more and more attracted to him. After all, he was paying attention to her in a way that her husband hadn’t in years. It made her feel uncomfortable but at the same time, bold and adventurous, in a way she’d always wanted to be.

Kristine shook her head. Reaching for the carafe, she refilled her wineglass. As the last drops of ruby liquid dripped into her cup, she said, “Looks like we should order another.”

A slight smile lifted the corners of Ethan’s mouth. “Something about that sounds delicious.”

A waiter darted from the inside of the restaurant back out into the street, balancing plates of steaming spaghetti carbonara, penne arrabiata and wild mushroom scallopini. Ethan caught his attention and, after dropping off the plates, the waiter brought more wine.

As he poured, Kristine watched a group of tourists rush past on the sidewalk. She wondered if any of their guidebooks were from her shop in Lincoln Park. Even with a good memory for her customers, it was doubtful she’d recognize any of them, since she was so far from home.

Kristine herself felt unrecognizable. That afternoon, she’d had it with her long, boring hair. Ducking inside a Roman beauty parlor, she made the universal motion for “chop it off.” When the hairdresser was finished, short, wispy tendrils framed her face and brushed the top of her shoulders. Ethan said, “It was like watching Michelangelo chip away at the marble until the angel came out.”

Now, he took her hand in his and caressed her palm with his thumb.

Kristine ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth, tasting the sweet aftertaste of the wine. Her breathing was shallow. She squeezed his hand, then pulled hers away.

Ethan’s eyes held hers for a long, questioning moment. “Come on,” he finally said, gesturing at the dance floor.

The dance floor was a partitioned area out in the middle of the street. White lights were strung overhead and a street band played from a small wooden platform. Couples of all ages moved their bodies to the music, under the looming neighborhood hotels.

Kristine hesitated for just a moment but got to her feet. She smiled as Ethan pulled her close to him, and she relished in the feeling of her body against his. He was an experienced dancer, guiding her in and out of turns. Each moment they touched, her entire body tingled. She found herself pressing against him, drawing out the moments, before he’d spin her out into a turn.

Slowly, the music ebbed into a gentle rhythm. Ethan put his hand at the small of her back and guided her close to him. They were both wet with sweat and Kristine closed her eyes, trying to fight against the attraction growing inside of her. The tingle in her stomach turned into a full-on shudder as Ethan buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply.

Pressing her hands into his shirt, Kristine blocked out everything but the feeling of his body against hers. She took in slow, steadying breaths as his thumb traced the exposed skin on the back of her arm.

Stop this, her conscience screamed. You shouldn’t be doing this!

But it felt too good to stop. She was just dancing, enjoying the feel of the air, the sight of the white lights swaying above her and the friendly face of the mandolin player bobbing along with the music.

There was a low wolf whistle from the side. Kristine’s eyes opened and she looked over, embarrassed. But the young Italian with slicked black hair, his red shirt open at the collar, was not whistling at her. He was tapping his hands against his knees and staring at a dark-haired woman undulating in the center of the floor.

Ethan reached up and, ever so slowly, moved Kristine’s hair away from her shoulder. As the singer wailed about lost love over the microphone, Ethan lowered his full, warm lips to her skin. “Come sei bella,” he whispered. “Let’s go back to the hotel . . .”

They were only steps away and she hesitated. It was obvious her husband had lost interest in her a long time ago. Was she really going to spend the rest of her life waiting for something to change?

Ethan spun her around. Leading her away from the dance floor, he kissed the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. They stopped for a moment on the front steps, gazing at each other in the yellow light of the ancient streetlamp. Gently, he reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears.

Leaning in, he brushed his lips against her ear. “I told you,” he whispered. “You’re the woman in the cream-colored dress.”

He reached for the door handle and pulled it open. Her heart was beating in quick little starts and she took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to put an end to the evening. Suddenly, as her eyes focused, she felt her heart thud to a heavy stop.

There, in the red couch facing the front door, sat her husband.