After the Wedding

Restaurant Magnolia stood on a side street off Basarabia Boulevard, close enough to Piața Muncii for the trams to be heard between songs. Its broad front windows caught the lights of passing cars; inside, brass-colored wall lamps, cream tablecloths, and a parquet floor had been polished for the wedding. Two hundred relatives and friends filled the room. It smelled of roast meat, perfume, coffee, sparkling wine, and carnations that had started to sag in their vases. Even the windows sweated: condensation tracing slow paths as the mirrored globe scattered stripes of gold across the parquet.

Iulian Roșu stood at the bar, his jacket hanging off one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow and forearms shining, his white shirt already gone translucent at the chest and the curve of his biceps. Every three minutes the bartender—an uncle by blood or marriage to half the room—refreshed his drink without being asked. Sometimes with one vodka, sometimes another, depending on which bottle he reached for beneath the counter. The ice had nearly run out. Iulian liked it that way. His mouth burned clean and sharp as glass. When he talked to the bartender, they barely finished their sentences. They had known each other too long to bother.

He didn’t talk much tonight. He watched.

Across the floor, Marina was laughing with her cousin Angela, the bride, whose wedding train lay in a heap at her feet. Marina’s laugh carried all the way to the bar. Her chestnut hair was coming out of its clip, and the jade-green dress Iulian had helped her choose at Bucur Obor fitted so closely she had to turn sideways in bathroom stalls. One strap kept slipping. When she leaned forward to refill her glass, the men at her table followed the movement without much pretense. Marina noticed. Of course she did.

Iulian tapped his glass against his teeth. He remembered seeing her for the first time at a wake four years earlier, both of them trapped beside the holy-water font because the church was packed. She’d been with someone else then. For three months he’d thought she was out of his league. Later he learned Marina didn’t believe in leagues, except when she was winning.

He saw the moment she felt his stare: her posture stilled, like a cat deciding whether to pounce. She turned, let her eyes find him across thirty feet of blue smoke, and gave him a slow, wide smile, the kind you gave someone you’d already fucked twice that day and planned to again before the night was over. There was nothing ambiguous about it. Her teeth showed. Her tongue pressed to the back of her upper lip, pink and damp. Then she ducked her chin and let her gaze skim the line of his body, once, like a dare.

In the bar mirror he caught his own reflection: black hair over his brow, crooked nose—thanks, Tomi—tie hanging loose. An electrician with callused hands and his grandmother’s gold cross at his throat. He wondered what Marina saw. She sometimes looked at him as if she’d already decided what to do with him and was only waiting for his cooperation.

The DJ—Vali, perm and all, shirt open to the third button—was changing cassettes when the first bars of “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” slouched into the room. Someone whooped. It might have been Angi. The bridesmaids answered with a shriek, hair and nails flashing, and within two bars every woman under forty was on the floor, arms overhead, hips syncopating against invisible partners. Iulian spotted Marina moving through the melee, hands clutching the hem of her skirt as she dodged the bride’s little cousins. She moved like she was born to music, even if she pretended not to care. Her shoes—fuck-me stilettos, as she called them, black and strappy—scissored the air with every step.

Iulian hated dancing. His body never quite followed the music, so he guarded his drink and watched Marina spin with Angi, both women trying to outlaugh the other. It was good to see her so happy. It also made him want to get her alone.

Someone bumped him from behind, a guy with a pencil mustache and a boutonniere wilted to nothing. He waved a folded banknote under Iulian’s nose.

“Iulian, you putting money in?”

Iulian glanced at the note, then at the men gathering at the edge of the dance floor.

“Not unless you’re letting me bet on the girl in green.”

He nodded toward Marina, who had pulled half the table into a chain dance and was getting dangerously close to the folding doors.

The man laughed, a single bark, then slid the bill back into his pocket and disappeared.

The song changed, the lights dropped a notch, and for the next three minutes the floor belonged to Belinda Carlisle, Vali’s disco ball, and every woman who had ever grown up knowing she would one day rule a wedding like this. Iulian leaned against the bar and let it wash over him. He felt the eyes on his back—he was never sure if it was admiration or suspicion, and he didn’t care—but he kept looking for Marina. Somehow she was always easy to find.

As the song crested, Marina caught his stare again, just for a heartbeat. She mouthed something at him: two words, the second one definitely me. He couldn’t lip-read, but it was probably fuck me. That’s what she always said later, when she’d had three glasses of wine and the night got too long and the world felt too small. Sometimes she meant it as a curse; sometimes as a prayer.

Someone called his name from the other end of the hall, but he ignored it. He finished his drink, left the empty on the bar, and stepped into the drag of bodies moving toward the food table. The overheads flickered as he passed under them, sweat cooling in a line down his back. He caught a whiff of grilled sausages and nearly gagged; he was still trying to shake the taste when a hand closed around his wrist, nails digging in.

“Iulian.” Angi smiled with all her teeth. She was flushed with triumph and sparkling wine. “You’re up. My orders.”

He glanced over her shoulder to where Marina stood, back against the wall, the curve of her hip cocked so far it looked like a dare. The green dress shimmered in the hallway light.

“I don’t dance,” Iulian said.

Angi made a noise of disgust, rolled her eyes, and, with the strength of a woman who had spent half the afternoon helping the waiters shift chairs, yanked him toward the dance floor.

“Then fake it. My cousin wants you out there.”

Marina looked him over as he approached, eyes a little narrowed, arms crossed beneath her chest.

“You coming or what?”

Her voice was low and rough, familiar as a fever. He realized he’d stopped two feet shy of her, like a dog waiting for the signal.

He offered a hand. She ignored it, hooked her arm around his waist instead, and pulled him into the orbit of couples already swaying. The music had gone slow, the room gone dark except for the mirror ball and the blinking runner lights along the ceiling. She pressed against him, not all the way but enough to let him know she could close the gap whenever she wanted.

She pitched her voice for his ear alone.

“You watching me?”

He snorted. “Whole room’s watching you.”

Her smile sharpened into a warning. “You jealous?”

Iulian considered lying, but the room was too hot for lies. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She nodded, satisfied, and rested her head on his shoulder. He could feel the damp at her hairline, the way her heart worked beneath the silk and skin. She let him lead, which she almost never did, and for a while they just moved through the music. Around them, people drifted in and out of focus—uncle, aunt, neighbor, someone from the old block—but the world had condensed to the space between his chin and the curve of her skull.

“After this, we’re leaving.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Your mother’s giving me the evil eye. And if I have to smell sausages for one more minute, I’m gonna set fire to something.”

He laughed. “You’d look good in a firefighter’s helmet.”

She pinched his side, hard, but he could hear the smile in her voice. The song wound down, the crowd shifted, and Marina peeled away first, straightening the line of her dress and smoothing her hair as she went. She didn’t look back, but he knew she expected him to follow.

At the bar, his glass was already refilled. He drank it in a single swallow, set the glass down, and watched as Angi and two of her bridesmaids, now barefoot, climbed onto the tiny stage to sing along with the next cassette. The party had begun to thin. People smoked on the steps, made promises to call, and lost track of their coats. Iulian barely noticed.

By midnight the music had slowed, though the dancers hadn’t. Couples pressed together beneath the disco ball while the remaining guests smoked and watched.

Iulian stood by the wall, his shirt sticking to his back. Marina had joined a group near the DJ table. He was wondering whether to approach when Radu Călin arrived.

Radu claimed to have come straight from a fire-service ceremony; he was still in his dress uniform, collar loosened. He was broad-shouldered and entirely too comfortable making his way through crowds. He found Marina without any trouble.

He didn’t ask. He just wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in, one massive hand splayed across the bare skin of her lower back. For a moment, Iulian thought she would flinch. She didn’t. She tipped her head up, smiled with all her teeth, and let him guide her onto the floor.

Iulian’s stomach tightened. Worse, Radu could dance. He turned Marina neatly, kept her close, and left his hand just above her ass. Iulian took another drink.

Radu’s thumb slid under the edge of the dress, found the strap of Marina’s bra, and rested there. Not moving, not squeezing, just knowing he could.

Marina’s eyes closed for half a second. When she opened them, she scanned the room, found Iulian, and held his gaze.

The message was clear: You watching? Good. Do something.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He drank.

The song changed to Basia’s “Time and Tide,” a favorite of Marina’s. She curled her fingers around Radu’s lapel. Iulian remembered a night after his father’s funeral when Marina had kissed him outside a grocery so hard she’d bitten his lip, then laughed at the blood. She’d called him a caveman and worn the bruise for a week.

He looked back at her and Radu. Marina was still watching him.

He was still rooted there when Laura Munteanu appeared at his elbow, a glass of sparkling wine sloshing in one hand and her other already working its way up his sleeve.

She glanced down at his empty hand.

“Jesus, Iulian, you gonna stand there all night with your dick in your hand?”

Laura smelled of cigarettes and cinnamon. Her lipstick was redder than her dress. She leaned in, hip grazing his thigh, and gave him a look that could’ve melted the ice in his drink.

He laughed, because it was easier than asking her to leave. “You know me. Always a gentleman.”

She snorted. “Since when?”

Then she grabbed his free hand, dragged him out of the shadows and onto the floor. She didn’t wait for him to resist; Laura never waited for anything. She pressed herself flush to his chest, arms locked around his neck, and started moving before the beat even registered.

Iulian let her. He didn’t want to cause a scene, not with Angi watching, not with half the room primed for any excuse to gossip. He set his drink down, rested his hands—carefully, at first—on the curve of her hips. The dress was a single layer of jersey, no slip, no secrets, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. He felt it instantly, the heat of her skin and the hardness of her nipples against his shirt.

Laura smiled, eyes half-lidded, and rocked her pelvis in a slow grind.

“I see you looking at the firefighter. You wanna switch partners?”

“Pretty sure he’s got his hands full.”

She smirked. “That’s never stopped you before.”

He didn’t have a comeback for that. He focused on the dance, on the smell of her hair—some supermarket product that still, somehow, reminded him of high school. She was shorter than Marina, more compact, but she knew how to make every inch count. She shifted her grip, one hand trailing down his back until she found the waistband of his pants.

He let her keep it there.

They danced closer. Someone jostled his elbow; Laura didn’t move away. Her breath was hot against his neck, her lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“One dance, Iulian. Then we both go back to pretending we don’t give a shit.”

He nodded. “Works for me.”

The next song bled in—Guns N’ Roses, a wedding wildcard. Laura laughed and let her body go loose, rolling her hips so that her ass pushed back into his hands, and he had no choice but to catch her. They carried on like that through the song, both of them pretending it was only a dance. He wondered if Marina was watching. He hoped she was.

On the far side of the floor, Radu had pulled Marina close enough that their faces touched when he spoke. Iulian saw Marina laugh, her mouth open and eyes bright, but there was a tightness at the corner of her lips he recognized. She was playing a part, and the script was familiar.

Laura caught him staring and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“You know you’re never gonna win this, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged, but her fingers dug into his shoulder. “You want a girl who wants to be possessed. You don’t want to be the one who gets left.”

He pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes. “That what happened to you?”

She grinned, all teeth, and squeezed his arm. “No, honey. I just like to watch you sweat.”

The song ended. Laura let go first, straightened her dress, and kissed him on the cheek—more tongue than necessary, just enough to mark him.

“Go get her, Romeo.”

She disappeared between two tables. Her perfume lingered a moment longer.

Iulian stood there, heart banging against his ribs, and watched as Radu dipped Marina low, then brought her back up slowly, his hand sliding from her back to the nape of her neck. The look on Marina’s face was all performance now—no heat, no real smile, just a kind of steely concentration.

The lights came up, not all the way but enough to bleach the drama out of the room. People blinked in the brighter light, found their tables, and started looking for their coats. The party was winding down, the fights and fucks moving out to cars and curbside taxis. Radu released Marina, gave her a pat on the hip, and said something that made her roll her eyes.

She caught Iulian’s stare, gave him a look that was neither invitation nor warning, then turned and walked away.

Iulian exhaled. He flexed his hand, found a crease in the palm where Laura’s nails had dug in, and rubbed at it like an itch.

Somewhere near the bar, the DJ put on “Don’t Dream It’s Over” and let it run without interruption. The couples left were slow-dancing in place, bodies slack, emotions wrung out. Iulian made his way through them, careful not to touch, and headed for the exit.

Outside, the street was wet and empty, the only light coming from the lighted windows of a late-night pastry shop across the way. The air was cooler, but the pressure in his skull had only doubled. He fished a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with the Zippo Marina had given him last Christmas, and waited.

It took less than a minute for her to find him.

She stepped out, heels in one hand, purse in the other. The green dress was wrinkled and sweat-dark at the small of her back, but it still made him want to bite through the fabric just to taste her.

She didn’t look at him right away. She took the cigarette from his lips, drew deep, and exhaled into the night.

“You mad?”

He shrugged, tried to play it cool. “I’m not the one who let a fireman cop a feel on the dance floor.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, all venom and amusement. “You’re the one who let Laura dry-hump you in front of my whole family.”

He laughed, short and ugly. “Thought you’d appreciate the symmetry.”

She took another drag, handed it back. Their fingers touched, electric and brief.

“I hate weddings.”

“Me too.” He didn’t mean it.

They stood like that, side by side, not talking, not needing to. A tram rattled beyond the boulevard. Marina still had his cigarette. Neither of them moved.

After a minute, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

“Let’s go home.”

It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. Before they could leave, Angi called out from the restaurant steps, still gathering the last of her guests. Marina turned toward her cousin, and Iulian followed.

Outside, the pavement was still warm from the day. Smoke drifted from the last cluster of guests by the door. A patch of spilled mineral water shone on the pavement outside Magnolia. Iulian and Marina found themselves beneath a buzzing streetlamp. Moths battered themselves against its glass.

The wedding was over but the goodbyes lingered, sticky and loud. Angi’s makeup had collapsed into rivers; she clung to Marina’s neck and sobbed with the operatic force of someone who hadn’t yet learned that every ending was the same ending. Tomi, the new husband, had a bear hug for everyone. He hit Iulian three times—once with a backslap that nearly knocked the wind out of him, once with a low growl of “You’re next, Iulian,” and once just because his arms didn’t know what else to do. There was confetti stuck in his hair and a wine stain down the front of his suit. He looked like he’d survived the best day of his life by a technicality.

Marina was barefoot now, her heels looped on two fingers, her toenails chipped and her feet smudged with the grime of half a neighborhood. The jade dress had ridden up her thighs, and every time she shifted, the lace tops of her stockings flashed at the world. She didn’t care, or maybe she wanted the world to look. She leaned into Iulian, his arm a band around her waist, her body pliant and hot as dough. The music still bled from the hall, slow and low, but outside it was just a pulse, a suggestion, a reminder that something had once filled the room.

Iulian felt the eyes on them—the ones that expected them to be the next wedding, the ones that hoped they’d split before the deposit was due, the ones that just liked the spectacle of them together. Marina seemed not to notice. Or she noticed and enjoyed it. With her, he was never sure.

They stayed under the lamp while Angi and Tomi finished their goodbyes. The bride and groom made their way to a decorated Dacia, ribbons on the hood and flowers fastened to the doors. The car peeled out to a chorus of horns and shouting cousins.

When it was finally quiet, Marina turned her face up to his and kissed him, lips wet and a little bruised, her hand sliding behind his neck. The kiss was too hard to be sweet and too practiced to be desperate, but Iulian felt something go soft in the back of his skull. He held her like that, her feet off the ground, until she made a noise—half laugh, half warning—and he set her down.

Her voice came out scraped raw. “Let’s get out of here.”

They walked three blocks to the Dacia Break. A tram passed somewhere beyond the boulevard. Marina carried her shoes and walked barefoot, moving ahead of him whenever he slowed. Neither brought up the dances.

He unlocked her door. She got in, gathered the green skirt around her knees, and stared through the windshield while he circled to the driver’s side. The car smelled of vinyl and old smoke. He started the engine and left it idling.

Somewhere to the west, a police siren rose and faded. Marina leaned back, one arm on the door, the other tracing lines on her thigh. She watched the world through the windshield, mouth set in a line he couldn’t read.

She fished a Camel Filter from her purse, rolled it between her fingers like a magician’s coin, then pressed in the dashboard lighter. When it popped free, she touched the glowing coil to her cigarette. For an instant the light picked out her cheekbones and the small scar under her left eye, a thing he’d never asked about because he didn’t want to hear the story. She exhaled smoke toward the roof, and the car filled up with it, a veil that made her harder to read.

The silence stretched for another minute.

“You want to tell me what’s up with Laura?”

He took a breath. “Nothing’s up.”

She smiled, but it was the smile she reserved for persistent salesmen. “She was all over you.”

“She’s always like that.”

“Maybe you like it.”

He tried to laugh, but it wouldn’t come. “I like you.”

She shrugged, took another drag. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He wanted to touch her, to run his hand along her jaw or her throat, but he didn’t know if she’d bite him or pull away. He kept his hands on the wheel.

She smoked. He watched the windshield.

Marina kept her eyes on the middle distance.

“Drive.”