“May I kiss you on the lips?” That’s what Dickie asks, away from prying eyes and out of earshot from his wife. He needn’t bother to ask—Bitsy is secretly thrilled to find him waiting for her outside the ladies’ lounge. During cocktails at the club, they neck on the couch inside the powder room. That night, her green blouse and pink skirt match the colors of the cushions perfectly. “It’s a Monet,” Dickie whispers huskily in her ear, as she finds herself eagerly pinned and sinking lower. “A work of art, just like you.” Afterwards, an angry hickey blooms on Bitsy’s neck, a bruised flower with a broken stem.

For months, the scandal is all anyone can discuss—at brunch, on the golf course and in the cotillion. “He’s such a charmer!” all her friends gush. Bitsy feels dizzy, intoxicated, lucky. Colors seem brighter, laughter flows, the conversation turns raucous. When Bitsy gets pregnant, Dickie’s wife files for divorce and decides to move her children to North Carolina to be closer to her parents.

After the club closes, Bitsy finds the couch in a church basement 17 years later. Transfixed, she thinks she might sink into its forgiving softness if she could, the cool, frayed fabric feels so intimate and knowing. Now that Dickie is sober, he doesn’t care about cocktails at the club, giggling girls, or Monet. Well, Bitsy would remember for him. And sit there, remembering.

SUELAIN MOY

WANDS

When I was young
and had the power to put
power in my hands,
I built magic wands out of Legos.
I used the square blocks (four pegs)
and used only two colors,
alternating,
until all those pieces were in
the wand.

Yellow and black in a small
stack is the bee’s flag.
Fear and the sting, fire
and the ash. The letters
on plastic police tape.
Its colors came in
and mixed a drink
of power and remains.

Blue and white is the wand
of snow and ice, solitude
in the easy, empty world.
I turned it over and over
as if you’d find a tooth
frozen inside. The air
it turned it was soft
and patient.

Red and blue moved
against my eyes
like the colors
wanted to leap
off the blocks and melt
into violet light.
Boy and blood, water
and lava. Cardinal
and Jay—the ones
that hopped
on my grandma’s lawn.
This is the one I carried
most of the time.
I melted down its power
only for the building
of enormous,
temporary machines.

ERIC DUTTON