Hell for Hannah

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Hannah and Ivan were dancing. The music was soft and sultry, the stuff of muted strings, and they moved to its Latin rhythms in a floating intimacy. Her head was back, her eyes were dosed, and her lips stirred in a whisper of ecstasy. They were a beautiful pair.

When the music stopped, they returned to their table, and I got up and went over. I bowed to Ivan very politely and said, “May I have the next dance with my wife?” And he stood and returned the bow, also very politely, and said, “But of course, señor.” Then he turned and made another bow to Hannah, and she stood up with us, her face white and her eyes dark with sorrow. The sorrow was there because she didn’t like hurting her husband, but it would have been better for me if she had. It would have been better if she’d sneered nastily and spit in my eye.

The music started again, and she came into my arms, but not very far in. I tried my best, and I think she did, too, but it still wasn’t any good. It was like dancing with a wooden doll.

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