Neva Altaj

“Your father would never kill a man because of me, you know.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, Mom.”

“No, honey. It isn’t,”

“Marry me,” he says, “and I’ll stop the war.”

“Dusha moya . . .”

I smile and start to turn around, but Mikhail winds his arm around my waist and keeps my back pressed to his chest. He nuzzles my neck as his right hand comes to rest on the countertop in front of me, holding a single yellow rose. All the breath leaves my lungs as I stare at the delicate flower, its stem wrapped in a wide yellow silk ribbon embroidered with gold.

“I never told you,” he whispers in my ear, “ That I was always your biggest fan. I still am.”

“Mikhail?” I utter, my eyes still focused on the flower.

“There was this poster I saw one evening—I think it was in some shop window—almost a year ago. I remember walking past it, and then retracing my steps to take a better look at the image. It showed a group of dancers. All except one were wearing yellow costumes, and as I regarded them, I wondered why, among all of them, the one dancer who wore a black outfit shined brighter than the rest.” A kiss lands at the side of my neck. “Like a sun.”

He turns me to face him then, cups my face with his hand, and places a soft kiss on my lips. “I never missed any of your shows after that. I love you, my little sun. My solnyshko.”

I wind my arms around his waist and bury my face in his chest. “I love you, too . . . my Mikhail.”

Because I am in love with you. Every part of you. Your grumpy personality included. Fucking deal with it

As always, I leave a single rose and proceed to the exit.

There are no shoes, so it looks like I will be pairing my strappy heels with yoga pants and a T-shirt when we go to get my stuff. Classy

No one gets to speak like that about my husband.

“You touch my wife again, in any way, I cut off your hand. I hear you speak bad about her, I cut out your tongue. You dare to even think about hitting her ever again, I cut off your head. Am I clear, Bruno?”

been so long since I wanted to feel a woman’s bare body next to mine, but now I do. And for someone with skin contact issues, that’s a highly disturbing realization.

I feel a tug on my hair as he removes the hair tie binding my braid, and the strands fall loose. Nothing else happens at first, and I wonder if that’s all he planned to do. Then his fingers start combing through my hair. He is still reading but keeps playing with my hair, and I lean my head back into his touch.