Red Wine

Anna loves this smooth white dress. The cut is perfect for her height and edges just above her lean, tight calves. The material is so thin and fresh that it drifts through the air when she walks, trailing and floating with an elegance that she rarely gets the pleasure of experiencing. Its translucence is in fact almost the physical manifestation of Anna herself. She truly is a waif of a beauty, a slight of a human being. Still, it is nearly impossible to merely glance at this woman. Anna loves her dress, but it is not Nina Ricci. It is not Armani. And it is not Valentino.
She watches Dalton Masters and follows his lead placing the crimson cloth napkin across her lap. She looks to Lena and sees a crooked little smile. Maybe that was not right. Dalton’s deep grey Armani suit is a lovely contrast to the soft pink Ralph Lauren shirt beneath it. His shining pearl cufflinks are hard to look away from, harder still to ignore are his symmetrical features and expensive haircut. Why she had accepted Dalton’s dinner invitation was a mystery even to her. She knew that there was no good to come of it. Maybe it was fear of being rude. Maybe she wanted to experience just a moment of this life. Maybe she just needed an excuse to be in the same room as Lena. Her long fingers touch the silver of the spoon next to her authentic china plate. She is surprised at its coldness in the heat of the room. Her hands are remarkably small and she suddenly feels insecure and afraid as the large calloused hand of the man to her left reaches over and straightens the spoon that she had moved.
"Lena, dear, serve our guest." he says turning to his wife. She finds his words rude before remembering that this is his house, his home.
Anna's eyes defy her better judgment and run slowly up and down the smooth tanned skin of the woman's perfect arms. Lena's length had been what first attracted Anna. Her legs, her hands, her lashes, the length of her. Now with Dalton next to her she seems so small. Her hair is still long chocolate and in a perfectly glamorous but simple low ponytail. Her eyes are still large and black. Her mouth is still divine and the color of candy. She is still lovely. But she is not Lena. She is completely unrecognizable.
Lena’s long hands with their manicured burgundy nails carefully spoon long stems of glistening asparagus and quartered red potatoes onto Anna’s plate. She can smell the rosemary, garlic, and butter already and her mouth begins to salivate. Lena sets the terra cotta casserole dish onto the white tablecloth and lightly places a pan-seared chicken breast with a red wine sauce next to the vegetables. She then drips three dots of the cherry colored sauce across a slightly empty space on her plate. She steps back to look then and shifts the meat slightly. Satisfied with her work she begins to serve her husband. Anna’s perfectly slate grey eyes search Lena. Had Lena remembered that these are her favorite foods?
“This is my favorite meal. Lena always makes it when I’ve been away.” Dalton says immediately beginning his meal. Anna’s eyes drop to the food in front of her. It is suddenly ash in her mouth.
His eyes are orange, the color of light shining through liquor or strong cologne that burns your nose. His face is chiseled and masculine, the one flaw being the tiny scar that underlines his bottom lip. Most people would not even notice unless they were looking for it. Once Anna takes notice she has to swallow several times and fight the urge to run to the rest room.
“So Lena tells me that you are a painter?” the deep boom of Dalton’s voice interrupts her gag reflex momentarily and she eagerly nods trying desperately not to show her discomfort, her disdain.
“Yes, I do paint, I don’t know that you could call me a painter, but I paint.” Her pale pink lips smile a glossy smile and while she is not truly happy it is not a false smile. Anna is too friendly to have ever known a false smile.
“Abstract? Impressionism? Realism?” He asks. The way that Dalton Masters speaks is as though he already knows what the response will be.
“It changes, really it is just whatever inspires me at a given time.” Anna can smile but it does nothing to cover the nerves in her voice.
Her pale white skin is a sharp contrast to the black of her bangs that are swept slightly to the side. Her straight hair falls to either side of her shapely breasts and takes very little care. Her face is of a doe-eyed sprite and other than the slight mist of freckles across her nose and high cheekbones it is colorless.

“They are precious. They make you real, make you—you.” Lena had told her once. The words are suddenly so near and real that she can feel the breath on her neck.

“Well, it seems that we have an inspirationalist in our midst… aren’t we the lucky ones.” Dalton laughs. His thick enthusiasm falls as satire hot on Anna’s skin. Lena looks at no one and nothing, just silently sips at her white wine.
“Here let me pour you a glass.” Dalton says reaching for a bottle of red. Lena puts a hand over his, still not attaching her attention to anything.
“Anna prefers white.” She says. Dalton is suddenly serious and staring into the side of her head.
“She will have red.” His words lack anger but they are final. “In fact, I will go get you something special from the reserve out back.” He smiles at Anna and his steps fall heavy on the cherry wood floors. The door shuts and Anna’s eyes find Lena’s mahogany lips.
“Lena.” She says her name as though breathing.
“Yes, Anna?” Lena tries to cover her tears in nonchalance.
“I miss you. This is all so very hard on me.” Anna tries to remain unemotional and informative.
“Well you should know that this isn’t easy on me. My mind wanders, and yes, sometimes it tries to find you. You must know that this is hard on me to.” Lena says trying to mimic Anna’s tone but it appears silly as tears dangle in her eyelashes.
Anna rises and silently pads over to where Lena is sitting. As desperately as she tries to look the woman in the face, she is averted. She cannot grasp the gaze that once burnt her skin. She falls to her knees beside her and places her palms on the cool burgundy silk covering Lena’s thigh. The woman gasps.
“Look at me.” She says, her voice even more of a whisper than usual. Lena does not move unlike the tear running down her cheek.
“You won’t even look at me?”
“I can’t!” Anna had barely had time to speak before the two simple words are pushed to the height of their passion and are expelled from Lena’s long slender throat.
Her eyes remain shut and Anna is to scared to move. Slowly Lena turns her face towards Anna’s . Her hands are shaking against Anna’s frail wrists. She does not want to, but she knows that she will open her eyes. She takes a quivering breath and as her eyes reluctantly flutter open, it happens.
All the weight of sex, desire, and words unspoken fall onto the shoulders of the sweet, quiet girl who had never been strong enough to stand beneath them. She sees everything. She sees dancing at midnight in the middle of the street. She sees orange sheets of Egyptian cotton. She sees novels read aloud. She sees the beautiful woman lying naked in her arms. She sees racing hearts, gasping breaths, and long spent bottles of sweet red wine.
“I love you Anna.” Lena says, crying now.
Anna cannot respond and so Lena grabs her face in her hands and presses her dark candy lips to the oversized pink pout in front of her. Their lips move together and a small piece of that ache that lives in Anna’s chest is relieved. As quickly as it begins and threatens to take them over as it had so many times before, Lena is standing and Dalton is entering the room. He so carefully ignores the tears on his wife’s face and the swollen wet lips of Anna. She reaches up to feel them throb with heat.
“I’ve been saving this.” He says not struggling for a moment with the cork. He pours a glass for each of them and then walks into the living room.
“Come in here Anna, you have to see this.” He says staring above his fireplace. Anna follows dumbly, shamefully.
“This is Gustav Klimt. He is a—“
“ I know Klimt.” Anna says, the first trace of aggression from the soft-spoken woman. Dalton laughs at her protest.
“What do you see?” He asks, looking to Anna instead of to “The Kiss”
“Well, aside from the intense detail, the strokes, the color, I think that we are looking at pure love. You see how she leans into him? She depends on him. And he, he has the ability to break her, just break her to pieces.” Her voice cracks despite her as her eyes drift to Lena, still standing in the kitchen and stoically staring into the painting. “But he never would. He cradles her face so gently. We are seeing his promise to love her and take care of her for the rest of their lives.” She says. Her lips quiver only for a moment before she breathes it all away and looks back to Dalton.
“No. I don’t even think that we are looking at the same painting.” He says with that same air of self-righteousness. Anna feels threatened so her eyes fall to the unstained unmarred surface of the white carpet.
“Look. Her face is turned away, as if to leave. Like she sees someone else, like she thinks of someone else. She thinks that maybe they would be better for her. And this man? He is strength. He is a man. He has her, and you are right about one thing.” He turns to Lena. “He could break her to pieces.” He pauses looking at her. She still stares at the painting. He looks back to Anna.
“She will never get to far from him. Never.” He says casually while staring holes through Anna’s paper skin.
“Well, that is one way to look at it.” Her defeated voice comes softly. He laughs
         “You know, you never mentioned what it is that inspires your paintings… your ‘inspirations.’” His brow furrows even deeper as he turns to Anna. She knows that he is only being cruel.
         “Lots of things.” She mumbles.
         “Lots of things? Like what?” He asks quickly. He refills his glass. Anna has not touched hers, it hangs delicately suspended from her fingertips.
         “Beauty. Pain. Loss.” She does not know why she conceits to his cruelty.
         “And, when do I get to see the one of my wife? What is it called again? Lena dear, what did she call it?” He asks turning to his wife who lightly closes her eyes allowing to tears to fall.
         Blood charges through Anna’s veins, filling her cheeks with hue. Her lips and ears pulse with heat and fury. How could she tell him?
         “Oh yes, Egyptian Cotton, wasn’t it?” He smiles as he swirls his wine.
         “You know actually, I don’t need to see it. What I know is that I am back now. I may have left but I am still Lena’s husband, I never stopped being Lena’s husband, and you fucked her making you the whore. And when you walk out that door, we will forget all about you and our lives will remain unchanged. You won’t even be a memory.” His presence looms over her frail frame but he does not yell. Anna wants to cry. How could she tell him about the painting?
         Dalton watches wide-eyed. He waits for a response. He waits for the gasp. He waits for the tear. He waits for the break. He clears his throat, sets down the crystal glass, and straightens his sleeves.
         “I said, when you leave you will be gone. We will forget all about you and our lives will be unchanged.” He says.
She has no expression, no name for it at least. She noticed very little of the words. What she did notice was the fire was not in Dalton’s voice, but his eyes. The man held together a perfectly calm demeanor, but the fire that lived there told of bruised cheeks, split lips, and broken vases. What the flames left out his split knuckles filled in. She looks past his broad, money-clad shoulder to Lena. Oh, Lena.
Lena’s eyes are glass, face still showing no emotion except for the wet eyes. She is careful still to look straight ahead, knowing deeply the result of her eyes meeting Anna’s pale moon skin, or worse yet her stone grey eyes. Her eyes have not moved from the painting.
Anna does not gasp. She does not shed a tear. She does not break or even blink. She stares still at the perfectly clean woven surface beneath her. Her movement is as slight as her frame and stature. A small shudder runs through her bony limbs followed by the deep thud of the wine glass hitting the carpet. She did not have to look to see the red liquid seeping and spreading through the fibers. No one moves to fix it. The fire rages in Dalton’s gaze. Lena closes her eyes releasing heavy salt tears, no expression. Anna sees nothing.
“Sorry.” She says softly, no shock on her face. Her voice is as frail as her slow drifting steps out the door.
The cold wind catches her lucid white dress and she leans slightly into it, face still numb, eyes closed. She knows that inside Dalton is smiling. Her absence would translate into victory to him. Anna smiles as she slips off her shoes. She wants to feel the cold concrete on her walk home. To think, with all of his money, all of his fire, and all of the strength of his hands, it only took a glass of red wine to defeat Dalton Masters.