Babayaga

in a way it had not for a long while. But the conversation they shared at the restaurant had made him feel better too. He was a little foggy on exactly how much of his story he had shared with her (he had lost count how many vodka shots they’d put down), but, walking down the street, he felt relaxed and unburdened for the first time in weeks. He remembered the good-humored way she listened to him, a sly smile crossing her lips as he talked (what had he said, exactly?). Continuing along the avenue, a part of him longed to turn around and race back to his bed. He wanted to crawl between the warm sheets again, to feel her skin, to slide between her legs, to flutter her eyes awake.
    He wondered how many men found such intensity in a woman’s arms. Most of them thought they did, no doubt, that was the spark that drove lust onward. But did they really, or was it usually some thinner, cheaper version? And when it was good like this, how long did the feeling last? Is this how married men felt? Did those husbands still ache and pine to roll in their wives’ embrace as they went through their tedious days, and when they were out with their wives, did they inch closer so that their fingers were never far from touching? He had felt he was being a little ridiculous, like a daydreaming character out of some silly romantic movie, but these were refreshing emotions for him, so he savored their rawness, sucking at them as one does a candy, wondering if he should give in to his desire and rush back to her side. If he turned around now, in five minutes’ time he could be naked, holding her in his arms, kissing that perfect soft spot below her collarbone and still only be an hour or so late for work. But as tempted as he was, practical realities held him in check. He had already wasted the previous day gallivanting about town on Oliver’s wild adventure. He needed to get back on top of things.
    Thinking of Oliver reminded him that Zoya had not clarified much there. Was she seeing both of them now? Or had she smoothly switched over like a busy traveler changing trains? What would Oliver think, or say? And should Will even care? After all, the man had been nothing but a whirlwind of distractions and destruction since they first crossed paths, and now he had managed to tangle himself up in both Will’s professional and personal life. No, Will decided, he wouldn’t worry about Oliver.
    Once Will had arrived at the office, he immediately buried himself in the distraction of work. Since he was not responsible for much these days, it didn’t take long to catch up with his reports. The media buying for Guizot had been completed in his absence, and the first-quarter estimates had all been done; still, he gave all the work a thorough review and then attended a pair of brief meetings with his colleagues in which they were all given updates on their clients’ general health. Then it was lunchtime.
    As was often his ritual, he sat alone at his desk, eating the ham-and-brie his assistant had brought in for him. Most of the office went out at lunch; many would not return till it was almost three. Will had long ago come to terms with the fact that the French did not embrace his same slavish devotion to office hours that Americans did. Looking out at the empty desks, Will was of two minds: on the one hand, he was happy that Americans like him worked so hard, clearly it allowed his country to remain at the vanguard of industrial leadership, the captains of capitalism, stewards of the modern, civilized world. On the other hand, he envied the French their serenity. After all, they too had, at one time, ruled much of the world like their American cousins did now, but it seemed they had abdicated that role with only a little regret, finding more than enough consolation in the various pleasures that could be found in a nice, long lunch.
    But no matter where they were, he thought, not one of them was experiencing anything like the strange misadventures and exquisite pleasures he had known in the past twenty-four hours. Then again, he thought, who was he to guess? Maybe two or three were out there in the throes of wild cataclysms that would make his recent escapades seem positively provincial. Chewing his sandwich, he enjoyed thinking that some of his staff were, at that very moment, caught up in riotous, bawdy, action-packed exploits involving various disguises, swashbuckling swordplay, suitcases stuffed with franc notes, the whooshing sound of