Market Night With His Wife

I still remember the way the night market smelled that first time—hot oil and grilled scallions, sugar burning on fruit skewers, the faint metallic tang of the river just beyond the stalls. Fifteen years later I stood at the same cracked entrance with Lorenzo’s shoulder brushing mine, and the scents hit me like a confession I hadn’t meant to make out loud. We were both thirty-three now, careers carved into the soft parts of us, calendars full and hands rarely free. I had suggested this anniversary detour the way you suggest a bandage: lightly, half-hoping he would say no so I wouldn’t have to feel the loss if the spark really was gone.

He didn’t say no. He only tightened his grip on the strap of my bag, the same worn leather one I’d carried on that first date, and murmured, “Lead the way, Nadia.” My name in his mouth still did something low and private to me. I stepped into the river of bodies and light.

Paper lanterns swayed overhead in imperfect rows, throwing gold across faces and frying pans. Children darted between adults’ legs; a woman laughed too loudly near the dumpling cart. Lorenzo stayed half a step behind me at first, the way he used to when we were twenty and broke and pretending we weren’t nervous. I felt the heat of him there, steady, and I hated how much I needed the proof that he hadn’t vanished into spreadsheets and late trains.

We drifted past the old spice stall. The same red plastic bins, the same man with the missing front tooth offering free pinches of cumin on the back of your hand. Lorenzo’s fingers found mine without looking. Just a brush at first—knuckle against knuckle—then a fuller press when the crowd shoved us sideways. I didn’t pull away. Neither did he. The contact lingered longer than necessary, long enough that my pulse learned a new rhythm against his skin.