By Allegra Solomon

The young couple was leaving the theater and walking to a nearby bar. Behind them, the marquee read: Eyes Wide Shut—One Night Only. They’d gone with some of their friends and co-workers from the library. It was an independent theater with only two show rooms, and the couple frequented it to the point of the cashiers and ushers knowing their names. On the theater’s Instagram, they noted that every Friday in February they would play a different romance film in the spirit of Valentine’s Day. The Friday before was a special triple feature of Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight. The Friday before that, Love & Basketball, and the Friday before that, In The Mood for Love. Why they chose to end on Eyes Wide Shut, the man couldn’t understand. He said this as he threw out the woman’s empty Sprite cup. She’d hardly noticed it left her hand.

It’s so funny, the woman said. Seeing them get all riled up like that. Cruise and Kidman. And they were married at the time. You think they ever argued like that?

God, no, the man said. Never. Either never, or all the time.

The woman laughed and put a hand in his back pocket. The woman was wearing a long black dress with opaque black tights and an emerald peacoat. The man was in awe of her. He felt this way about her often, even if he wasn’t very good at expressing it.

To me, the man continued, Tom Cruise is, like, a firecracker. He’s a Scientologist. I could see him exploding or being extremely Zen.

He’s a Scientologist, not a Buddhist.

Now the man laughed.

What do I know about Scientology? It’s all a big mystery. I bet they could be Zen, right? He pulled out his phone and googled: What is Scientology?

What about Kidman? The woman guided him as he walked, looking down at his phone. Do you think she would be like that?

Like what? Pressed about him wanting to sleep with those girls? Women.

Women. Wanting to sleep with those women? The woman nodded. No, I don’t think so. She seems sensible to me.

Sensible, the woman laughed in a huff. Okay—what does that mean?

I mean, I think you have to be really cool with a lot of stuff to operate in Hollywood. If her husband had a few stray thoughts about sleeping with someone else, I don’t think it would bother her. Everyone does it. The man put his phone back in his pocket having lost interest in scientology. He touched the back of the woman’s neck and ran his thumb around her ear.

Oh.

The woman laughed small, then it evolved into something large, artificial, and rapturous.

What?

Nothing, she said. I just. I didn’t know.

You didn’t know what?

I didn’t know that everyone did it. Thank you for telling me. She patted his hand kindly.

All right, he said, aiming for playful diffusion. You’re bending my words.

The man couldn’t tell if they were fighting or mischievously bickering, as they often did.

You said everyone does it. I’m just repeating what you said. She reached into the man’s other back pocket—the one her hand wasn’t in—and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his lighter, before bringing one to her mouth.

Nicole Kidman is very cool, she said, mouth tight, holding the cigarette in place.

The man dropped his hand. Stop that.

What? She teased the flame to the end as if to say, Will I? Won’t I? before lighting it.

She is, she said again. She’s very cool. So . . . sensible. She said the word as if she was making love to it. I’d gone all my life thinking that fantasizing about being with someone other than the person you love was a bit odd. But now I know everyone does it. And being okay with it isn’t bizarre. In fact, it’s sensible!

The woman still had her playful edge. The man had dropped his.

Okay. He said. All right.

It was quiet as they crossed the street illegally, waiting for cars to pass. People moved around them in the dark. Couples hand in hand or walking beside each other—contactless. A girl ran home while on the phone with her best friend. A stray cat dipped into an alley.

The tail end of the woman’s cigarette blazed as she inhaled. She’d never smoked before, and it felt both more and less exciting than she thought it would. The effect was more external than internal.

The couple was meeting their friends at the bar but had fallen behind when the woman went to the restroom after the movie. Their only friends in town were their co-workers, which made everything simultaneously convenient and complicated.

The couple passed a garden to their left, cold in the winter air. Blades of grass frozen into icicles.

I don’t want anyone but you, the man said, quiet. There was only the sound of their footsteps.

All right.

You know this. So, why are you doing this? They turned a corner.

The woman paused for a moment, debating her own candor.

Remember, she said, that night a couple years ago when we went out with our friends from our program to play trivia at that bar on Fifth? It was the drunkest I’d ever seen any of us. I remember David told us he felt jealous of Catholics. Ludicrous statement, by the way. But he found the concept of confession to be intoxicating. He said he just wanted to tell someone all his faults because they ate him up inside.

I think I told him to just pray, the man said, remembering this fondly—forgetting how they got there, and where they were going.

Yes, the woman smiled. But he said that wouldn’t work because he needed to hear the absolution. He wasn’t a man of faith, though he wished he was. He got so sad at the table, we all just decided to—you know—help him. Everyone’s going around saying, Oh, sometimes I have intrusive thoughts about burning my house down. I killed a frog once when I was five. I was a bully in middle school, and it still haunts me. Right? Stuff like that. I think I told everyone when I was a kid, I used to eat handfuls of baking soda.

They both laughed for a moment and the woman debated dropping it altogether.

Anyways, she continued, when she regained her breath. Do you remember what you said?

The man thought for a moment. Something about a magnifying glass and ants on the sidewalk?

No, no, she said. You said: The first thing I do when I meet someone is assess how attractive they are to me. Sometimes I think a bit further. I can’t help it. It’s just what I do.

The woman shrugged curtly, as if everything should click into place.

Okay? The man said.

Well, it didn’t mean anything to me at the time. When we were friends. But then, we started dating and I’d think about it all the time. The first time I introduced you to my best friends. That bartender at the brewery we always see. The first time Emma worked with us. I’m always like—

I knew it. The man brought his fingers to his temples and rubbed. I knew it had something to do with Emma.

Let me finish, she said. The first time she worked with us. All that stuff I said before, too. I’m always like—he’s thinking of sleeping with her.

They were close to the bar but had stopped on the street corner.

Go ahead and tell me I’m wrong, she said.

You’re wrong.

She took a drag.

You told me a long time ago Nicole Kidman in Batman Forever was one of your sexual awakenings. She stood in front of the man, pulled her twists back and put on an airy, submissive-sounding Hollywood voice. Would you want me and only me if I looked like that? This petite white girl with shiny hair?

The man walked past her.

Christ—why would you say something like that?

The woman caught up with the man, took a drag, and the man pulled the cigarette from her fingers.

You’re trying to punish me with this, he said, shaking the cigarette. You’ve never smoked with me. Not once. Stop this.

Tell me you’ve never thought about sleeping with Emma. Not even intrusively. There was one beat too long before he said, No.

The woman pulled the cigarette back to her lips and crossed the street. She took one last drag before walking through the bar door. The man followed slowly behind her.

They always took up the same back corner of the same bar after all these Friday night features. The couple usually went to see movies alone but had managed to get some of their co-workers to start going with them. Jerome, Saeed, R.J., and Emma had bought them both beers and had them waiting at the table. They took the last two seats. The woman sat between the man and Jerome, and the man between the woman and Emma.

Everyone drank. The consensus was as follows: Saeed and Emma had liked Eyes Wide Shut. R.J. and Jerome had not. The man and the woman were undecided about the matter. They talked it over while sipping on their third beers of the night. They were sour and tart, and it went to the woman’s head with immediacy. She felt light, and the warmth of the man’s hand on her knee made her body war with itself. She wanted to pry it off, finger by finger. She also wanted to kiss him, with her whole body, and feared if she did, she might never stop. Her love for him sometimes felt like an affliction; all the operations and logical functions of her anatomy cowering to the whims of the almighty heart.

Of course you didn’t like Eyes Wide Shut, Emma said to Jerome. You didn’t like Before Midnight either.

Well, they don’t strike me as Valentine’s Day movies, he said. They’re both extremely unromantic.

Disney kids—both of you. She pointed to Jerome and R.J.

Jerome turned to R.J. with a look that said, What’s she on about? Because Emma was always on about something.

She thinks we’ve been spoiled by fantasy. R.J. took a swig of his beer.

That’s what romance is. It’s seeing something through to the end—temptation— all that. The romance is in the choice. If there’s no choosing, what’s the intrigue? Right? She pointed to the man for validation, and he played with a hangnail. Who wants to watch a movie where two people are madly in love with each other the entire time?

I’d like that movie I think, the woman said with a sardonic flair; eyes squinted as if thinking hard. Everyone laughed. What? It’s true.

The woman was getting theatrical now, intrepid in the face of alcohol.

That’s what Before Sunrise and Before Sunset were, she said. Two people with eyes only for each other. And guess what? We all walked out of that movie on a high.

So, what—pretend the third movie doesn’t exist? Emma asked.

I’m just saying it’s interesting. Focused love is interesting. And it’s possible.

So, you do want to pretend the third movie doesn’t exist?

The woman looked at Emma; she had orange-ish blonde hair and a pointed nose. The woman said: I think we’re having two different conversations.

The man leaned into the woman and kissed her cheek. The woman swallowed her drink.

Personally, R.J. added, I would’ve stopped after the first movie.

Everyone chided him—always so naïve, so green.

It’s true, he said. I mean it was interesting. Keeping the original cast, watching them age. Doing it over—what—like, eighteen years? But nothing stands alone anymore. There’s always gotta be a sequel or a trilogy. It’s no better than superhero movies.

You know it’s better than any superhero movie, Saeed said. It’s not the same thing. It was artistically driven, not financially.

I like when things stand alone., R.J. said. When you bottle a moment—keep it contained in its own positive ecosystem. I think they had it right in the first movie, all the way up to the end. They shouldn’t have planned to meet again in six months. They said it themselves—it’s doomed. They should’ve just held that memory as it was and carried on with their lives.

Emma rolled her eyes dramatically and then locked eyes with the man. He laughed.

How morose, she said. She was sitting in loose jeans, criss-crossed in her seat.

It isn’t morose. Look, he said. When I was ten my twin sister started doing competitive cheer. We lived in a very strict household; limited TV and no phones until we graduated from high school. My sister practiced after school and I had to sit there, in the lobby, doing my homework until she was done. I wasn’t allowed to stay home alone yet. After practice, her friends would come and talk to me. There was one girl—Aniah—who would sit and talk with me until her parents got her. She’d tell me about her school—what math they were doing, what they did in gym class. Like, her favorite music, cartoons—everything. We began sneaking notes into each other’s bags and would find them randomly throughout the next day. I told all my friends from school about her, but I didn’t have any evidence of her outside of the notes. Everyone was telling me she wasn’t real, but I didn’t mind it. It was like a world outside of my world. Then one day, when we were twelve, she just stopped showing up to the gym. My sister didn’t know what happened. I think she had a bad home life. But I never saw her again. R.J. sat back in his chair, slow, as if in a dream. That was the first time I felt like I mattered to someone.

For a moment, it seemed he would say more, but he didn’t.

Emma locked eyes with the man again. Then, they both laughed.

Emma was always looking to the man when something was funny; both the man and the woman knew it. The man pretended not to know it, and the woman knew that too.

You’re not serious. Emma’s face was turning red as she laughed. You don’t actually think that’s romantic—reminiscing on something that happened to you as a child? You think that justifies your stance?

R.J. shrugged as if to say, Well.

Christ, Emma chided. You’re further gone than I thought.

Everyone’s laughter was sonorous and thick. R.J. took it on the chin. The woman joined in, but only a little, so as to not seem like the odd one out.

I’m not trying to be mean. Emma uncrossed her legs, leaned forward, then spoke slow and clear. This is all I’m saying: bottling a moment to preserve its goodness rather than seeing it through is not romantic. It is not romantic to deprive yourself of potential happiness just because you’re afraid one day the happiness may fade. It is destructive and sad. Because then you’re twenty-fucking-eight, she pointed to R.J., looking back on a decontextualized moment, wishing for the life of an adolescent boy with no phone.

Tell us how you really feel, Jerome said. She told him to fuck off and threw a napkin at his face.

Everyone broke into their own conversations—forgetting the topic of the movies altogether. They were never going to agree. The woman talked to Jerome and R.J. and the man talked to Emma and Saeed. It had been four drinks, then. Everyone’s bodies were loose, knocked unsteady by minor touches. The woman saw an expression like confusion on Jerome’s face, then it transformed into a wide-eyed epiphany.

He asked Emma if anyone had ever told her she looked like Nicole Kidman before.

R.J. said he had; it was one of the first things he’d ever said to her. Saeed chimed in agreement. He hadn’t noticed until then, but they were right. Maybe they needed Kubrick to steer them in the right direction.

Guys, Emma said. Really? Come on.

I see it, the woman said evenly. Don’t you? She looked at the man and then pointed at Emma. I mean it’s really striking.

I don’t know, the man said.

Yeah, no—I see it. The nose, she said, motioning around her face. The cheekbones. The hair. The effortless cool.

She thinks I’m cool guys. Emma cheesed clutching her heart.

Yes, the woman said. You are. She is! The woman gestured to her, flat palm turned upward. So carefree and laid back. You seem like nothing ever bothers you. You seem, like—I don’t know, she shrugged. You seem so sensible.

The man could hear his pulse in his ears, thrumming like a snare.

Look at her, R.J. said. She’s blushing.

You have to buy me dinner first, Emma joked.

I admire that about you. I should be more like that. Right? The woman looked at the man. More calm?

I just got to the point where I realized I can’t control anything, Emma said casually. My partner wants to leave or cheat on me? Go ahead. I’m stuck in traffic? So be it. Waiter messed up my order? Maybe I’ll like it better this way. You know. It’s one of those things. Emma finished her beer and then pulled her legs back up on her chair. When I was with my ex-boyfriend, about a year in I realized I had a fat crush on his best girl friend. And I just accepted. I was like—all right. I like this girl. Everyone involved knew it. He knew it, she knew it, but what can you do about it? It was just a fact. So, we all just carried on. Then, when he and I broke up, I dated her. She laughed and ran a hand through her hair. He called me like, I knew it, I knew it! It’s always who you suspect. And—I mean—yeah it is. But so what?

How long did you date? The man asked.

Three weeks, she said. Anyways, she was crazy.

Jerome and R.J.’s bodies rocked with laughter, falling into each other.

Saeed said, Bet you wished you stayed with your guy.

I did actually, she said, for a while there. But if I had, I would’ve just wanted to be with her. It’s a double bind. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. I’m not one for commitment anyways.

That’s why you only date married people now, R.J. said.

Exactly. She raised her drink and everyone cheers’d her.

The woman picked at her nail polish. She said, with feigned indifference, It’s possible you just didn’t love him if you were thinking about being with someone else while with him.

Emma looked at the woman as if she were a child. I don’t think it’s always that straightforward.

But it can be.

Sure, she said. It can be. But is it always?

The others had stopped listening and were talking amongst themselves. Jerome, Saeed, R.J., and the man talked about a concert they’d all gone to while the woman was out of town a while ago. Emma joined in.

The woman got up to get a drink at the bar. The man stayed behind.

The man looked at Emma as she talked about the night—badgering the man about his low alcohol tolerance—and, for the first time, he did imagine sleeping with her. It was self-fulfilling, he decided. The woman had put it in his mind, and then he saw it. Her red hair above him like a soft, clean fabric. Her hand on his shoulder. And like that; the moment he thought about it, his interest in it dissolved. That was that. The thought of it was completely unappetizing. It was clear: nothing that was not the woman could affect him deeply anymore. He laughed small to himself. Maybe seeing it through in your thoughts was enough. Then a feeling in him plunged. Because now, the woman was right. He had thought about sleeping with Emma.

To even it out, he imagined her with Jerome. He looked more like her ex-boyfriends than the man did, and—during the woman’s first shift at the library—before anyone knew of her relationship, Jerome had asked her out to dinner. The man couldn’t remember the details—the woman didn’t get into them—but she rejected him kindly, and it’d never come up again. The man hardly ever thought of this moment. The woman’s devotion to him was clear.

The man imagined he was away visiting his parents and the woman invited Jerome over. He was in the man’s bed. He wore the man’s robe after they had taken a shower together and they both smelled of mint and argon oil. Jerome had washed her hair, though the man never had. He imagined Jerome hugging her from behind—lips pressed to her shoulder.

Then the man imagined he wasn’t the one imagining it, but it was the woman thinking about it all. Fantasizing about it by the man’s side—insatiably vexed with want. Following this, he abruptly stopped.

The woman came back ten minutes later with a napkin in her hand and no drink. She sat next to the man, and when she did, he put his arm around her; picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. If they’d been alone, he would’ve stayed like that.

You disappearing on me? he said into her hand.

Sorry, she said, smile dissolving into perfectly rounded cheeks. No, I just got talking to someone.

Saeed picked up the napkin she’d placed on the table to wipe the ring around his lips, but then waved it in the air like a flag.

What’s this? he said. A numberrrr! He sang the word like a pop song.

She’s still got it, R.J. said, shaking his head.

The man looked at the woman.

Oh come on, she said. It was some kid. He was like, twenty-one and wanted to know what to do in town.

That was a line, the man said.

No, really. He was English. He’s just blowing through town and needed things to do. I recommended some places to him; he bought me a drink then gave me his number, in case I thought of anything new. That was it. She put her hand on his leg.

You are dating a beautiful woman, Jerome said to the man in a taunt. I’m sure this happens all the time.

Jerome and the woman met eyes and laughed. The man looked past them, at the wall.

It does, the woman said. I usually keep it to myself. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. But it is very common. Maybe once a week.

Is that so, the man said.

The woman nodded—a smile stretched across her face. Oh yeah. I mean, everyone knows I have a boyfriend, but some people just don’t care. People I know. Strangers. One time—actually, I never told you this, the woman laughed into her hand. But, on our second anniversary, when you’d gone to the restroom, the waiter told me he couldn’t stop looking at me all night. I told him I was flattered—I didn’t know what else to say. Then he was like, do you love that guy?

Saeed shot beer out of his nose and Emma covered her mouth.

I really mean it! He was so embarrassed I could tell, but he said that he’d been thinking about speaking to me one on one his entire shift, and if he didn’t, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. I mean, he saw it through, right? She pointed to Emma, and she nodded. Well, anyways—I said that I did love you. That you were the love of my life. And he said, what a lucky bastard. I was like, you bet he is. After that—she pointed to the man—you came back, and I was so happy to see you.

The theatrical air of the conversation fell into something guileless. The woman’s voice undulated against her will. She refused eye contact with any of them, especially the man.

I was so happy to be with you after that. It’s always like that. When someone hits on me or whatever. I see you and I think—I’m so happy this, right here, is my life.

The woman was looking into her lap then.

I never want anyone other than you, she said. I can’t even think about it.

When the couple left the bar, they walked home in silence. It was not a hostile silence—it was nervous. They passed a park, a church, a fountain. On their first date two-and-a-half years before, they took a walk like this around their old university town. The man was so nervous he couldn’t find it in him to reach out and touch the woman’s hand—his had gone numb. It was a feeling he’d forgotten about, or a feeling—he’d assumed—you grew out of by the time you left high school; a feeling rooted in mystique, youth, and juvenile beliefs about how connection should feel and how it actually does. He’d never told the woman this—or that when she finally did reach out and grab his hand, the feeling numbed his whole body. He almost tripped over his own feet. This was the truth: he hadn’t thought about sleeping with anyone else in a while. He’d made up his mind about the rest of his life a long time ago.

The woman looked over to the man as they walked—saw his blank expression and wondered if she’d pushed him too far. She couldn’t help it. When she went to the bar, she immediately told the guy that she had a boyfriend, as she always did. He didn’t care, as they often didn’t. After pleasantries, the guy told her she had an aura of magnetism around her and asked if she’d like to go home with him. She shook her head slow and returned to her table. Herein lay the problem: the woman felt that she was always protecting the man from how desired she was. How, if she wasn’t the dutifully devoted person she was, she could be gone. Here I am, she thought, turning down people weekly, while he’s fantasizing about sleeping with every girl he meets. She rebelled. She imagined she did sleep with the guy from the bar. She’d gone home with him and returned the next day smelling of his cologne.

This experiment was so outside of herself—so empty—that she abandoned the thought before it’d even begun.

The man grabbed the woman’s hand and felt the sweat on it. He then wiped it on his pant leg. He continued like this—reaching for the woman’s palm, transferring the sweat to his hand, then disposing of it until her hand was completely dry.

Thank you, she said.

He kissed the back of her hand.

In the house, the woman lay face up on their bed. The man made them both a cup of chamomile tea and put an extra teaspoon of honey in hers, the way she preferred. He found her legs dangling off the edge of the bed, and rubbed lotion on them, then her feet—dried crisp and cracked in the winter climate. He kissed her ankle, then her knees. The man pressed his face against the woman’s shins and hugged her legs as if they were a body pillow. He felt the embrace warm on his skin. He thought, this is how it feels to love her. To be at her feet. He wanted to express this sentiment to her but doubted he could convey the severity of the feeling. He opted for silence.

The woman felt something strange and wet on her face, then discovered she was crying. It was hushed, as if it were happening in a far-off room to some- one else. She wasn’t sure why she was crying. It was a mixture of so many things; contentment at the man’s touch, longing, uncertainty, devotion, defense. Everything in life is being approached from a thousand different angles; numer- ous meanings and motivations loe subconscious in the undertow. Nothing about the human condition will ever be simple.

I don’t like surprises, she said. The words crumbled into the air.

I don’t have anything to surprise you with.

The man stayed there, drawing his fingers on the fleshy cushion of her calves.

You’ve got no clue about my feelings for you, he said, in a whisper of a voice.

Sometimes, the woman said, I think I want you to say terrible things to me, so we can skip to the bad part instead of it catching me off guard.

You don’t know that there’s a bad part.

There’s always a bad part.

The man watched the woman from below and then approached her, bringing her face into his hands. She leaned her head into his palm and felt her mind go clear. He said her name and she looked up at him—the whites of her eyes lustrous in wait.

By the time the couple remembered the tea it had gone cold. The woman went to take a shower and the man read a book from the library in bed. In the shower, the woman discovered she forgot her towel. The man noticed before she did and set it on the bathroom sink without a word. When the woman came out and saw the towel, she thought she’d imagined the forgetting altogether. The man didn’t even remember getting up from the bed.

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Allegra Solomon is a fiction writer from Columbus, Ohio. She has an MFA from the University of Kentucky and a BA in Creative Writing from Ohio University. Her story collection, There’s Nothing Left For You Here, won the Kimbilio National Fiction Prize and is forthcoming from Four Way Books in 2025. Her work is Pushcart-nominated and has appeared in The Georgia Review, TriQuarterly, American Literary Review, and more. She lives in Lexington, Kentucky