"Right here," Zack says, pulling me onto the sofa piled with laundry I haven’t folded yet.

"No lights," Zack whispers, when I reach toward the lamp.

"Move to the left," Zack murmurs. His breath reeks of wine.

I move to his left. Zack kisses my ear, my neck, my collarbone. He hasn't kissed my mouth in a long time, not since he started sleeping with Eva Trank. His day's growth of beard scrapes my skin.

"Up," he says, his fingers impatient beneath me.

I arch my back, and his lips move between my breasts, then down my stomach. My neck hurts. I try to relax, and he prods me up again. My legs quiver with the strain of maintaining the position. A slug trail of saliva gleams on my torso.

It’s the last night of the year. Zack took me out to dinner, where I had a glass of cabernet and he finished the bottle. Now we’re back at our apartment, Times Square festivities flickering on the television, everyone waiting for the ball to drop.

"Turn over."

I turn over. Zack lifts me from behind until I’m kneeling. I try to look at him, but he pushes my head down. His hands clamp my waist, and then he’s in me, and the sudden pain clots the breath in my throat. I try to pull away, but he holds me in place, and by the time I find my voice, it’s over.

I wait, panting. Maybe now Zack won't say what I know he’s going to tell me. He’ll stop spending his nights elsewhere, and bring back his toothbrush from Eva's apartment. Eva Trank, with her greedy flutist's mouth. I don’t know where they first met, only that one day she turned up at ensemble, ready to rehearse Gluck's "Dance of the Blessed Spirits." From the piano, I watched, incredulous, as she pursed her vermilion lips at Zack, before lowering them in anticipation of his cue.

Why do you let her flirt with you like that? I asked him later, at home, raising my voice so he could hear me over the stereo. Does she realize you're married?

I think you're overreacting, he said. He was conducting Beethoven, and he didn't miss a beat.

Now, pinned beneath his sweaty body, I await the new year. Surely he wouldn't have slept with me if he didn't still love me. If I don’t say anything about Eva, if we don’t look back, maybe we can just forget her and move forward. The countdown begins. Ten, nine —

Zack rolls off of me. His eyes are open, sober now. Eight, seven —

"Shit," he groans. Six, five —

I close my eyes and still I see confetti falling — four, three, two — as the ball descends. And shatters.

Didi Wood's stories have appeared in Night Train, Cenotaph Pocket Edition, The Copperfield Review, Northwest Review, and other publications. She lives near Seattle with her husband and two sons.

Copyright 2002 by Didi Wood

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