48. Kind Eyes
Kind Eyes
Rafe
By the time Piotr calls me back to the table, the vodka’s already half gone. The men are laughing, loud, red-cheeked, sleeves rolled, eyes bright with that easy camaraderie that makes you forget what language you started in.
“Kasia’s watching Zosia,” Piotr says, slinging an arm around my shoulders as he hands me a shot. “Now come, time to earn your Polish citizenship.”
I laugh. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
He grins, wide and proud. “Only a little.”
The glass hits my palm, cold and clear. Around the table, Tata, Piotr, Dominik, a few uncles, a cousin, and the local priest, because of course there’s a priest, are arguing about cards. I down the vodka, all fire and sugar. It goes down smooth.
Across the room, Kasia’s on the floor with Zosia, helping her arrange tiny dolls inside the dollhouse. Her chestnut hair falling over her shoulder as she kneels beside her. Zosia’s narrating something about a doll party, who kissed who and Kasia humors her, smiling, patient.
Lena hasn’t moved from Dominik’s lap. She’s laughing loudly, drinking fast, her dress slipping a little further with every hour. It’s making everyone uncomfortable, especially Piotr’s wife, Aga, who keeps pretending to need things from the kitchen in between scowls. Then Lena’s eyes narrow.
“Oh my god,” she says, her voice creeping into that excited register I’ve gotten used to, bordering on a squeal. “You’re him.”
The table quiets. She points at me with a precision only the truly drunk possess. “You’re the veil guys. The goth guys with abs. Obah? Obie? Obelus!” Her voice goes sugary. “I knew I recognized those sexy eyes.”
I shift slightly, trying not to make a scene. “Even musicians have to eat, apparently.”
She laughs, leans forward, reaching for my arm like she’s about to pet me.
I move just enough that her fingers catch air instead.
Across the table, Dominik watches it all, an almost-smile tugging at his mouth.
Not one shred of jealousy. Not even anger.
Just satisfaction, like he’s watching a show he wrote himself, one he hopes might upset Kasia.
He's hoping I make a mistake he can use. Keep dreaming.
Lena pulls out the chair beside me, sits down, and tops off my glass before I can protest. “You must tell me,” she purrs, “how a man like you ends up here, drinking with old Poles in flannel. Even the local priest! Hello, Father!” She waves.
He nods, embarrassed, clearly wishing the cards were all that was on the table right now.
I manage a smile. “I was promised vodka. No one warned me about the interview.”
She giggles and leans closer, whispering something in Polish I can’t quite catch, something that definitely sounds like a proposition. I move again, inching further down the table.
“So, uh, Tata,” I say, desperate for cover, “this vodka, what brand is it? Homemade?”
“Of course homemade!” he booms, delighted. “Imported from my cousin’s garage in Gdańsk.”
The men erupt in laughter. Cards slap the table, hands wave, more glasses get poured.
When it’s time for the official toast, the memory of Kasia’s eyes locked on mine flashes across my mind.
Lena reaches to toast with me, eyes bright with mischief, but I turn and clink with Dominik across the table instead.
For one second, he freezes. He doesn’t like it, but with Zosia watching from the couch, he won’t make a scene.
Our glasses ring like bells, then we drink, eyes fixed.
Piotr throws his arm around both of us, laughing.
“This is life, eh? Family, vodka, cards! What else could a man want?” He looks at me.
“So, Obelus, blood man, why all the silly names and altar?”
I smile. “The short version? We started in a basement and wanted to build something out of teenage chaos. Plus, to a bunch of boys, nothing sounded cooler than The Riven Altar. All the gothic symbols. Sacrifice, lament, blood, the rest of it.” I lean in, lowering my voice like it’s a secret.
“Sounded better than Four Idiots With Instruments.”
The table roars, more glasses, more laughter.
“And the punch?” Piotr says suddenly, grinning wide. “Eh? Your bandmate? What'd he say to set you off, huh?”
I blink. “You really do your research.”
“Everyone saw the video,” he says proudly. “Half of Gdańsk debated it for weeks!”
I sigh, then laugh. “He said some unkind things about Kasia, that she wasn’t the right fit for me.
So I showed him the fit of my fist, on his face.
” I line it up perfectly, lighter than the truth, playing to the crowd.
Letting the showmanship take over, the way my voice can light up a crowd with the right cadence.
For a heartbeat, silence and then the room explodes.
Exactly the response I expected. Tata nearly falls off his chair laughing.
Piotr slaps me on the back hard enough to jolt the table.
“Ha! Good man!” he shouts, wiping tears from his eyes. “You defended her honor!”
“Polish style!” Tata adds. “A toast to that!”
Glasses clink again, laughter louder than the music, and in the chaos Lena’s hand slides onto my thigh. I freeze, her voice slurring near my ear. “Defend mine next. I can show you what appreciation really feels like.”
I’m up before the laughter fades. “Excuse me,” I say quickly, pushing back my chair. “Bathroom.”
Kasia’s across the room, still sitting with Zosia, and when she sees me practically bolt, she bursts out laughing. Not jealous, just amused, shoulders shaking.
As I pass, I lean down and murmur, “Don’t have too much fun watching me suffer.”
She tilts her head up, smiling, and I steal a quick kiss before escaping down the hall.
In the mirror my reflection waits, shirt loose, a few extra buttons undone that Lena must’ve managed while I was distracted, hair a mess, a faint lipstick mark on my cheek where she leaned in against me.
I wipe it away, button back up, try to tame the chaos.
When I look again, I can’t help laughing under my breath.
What have I gotten myself into? A woman like Kasia?
She’s made of something I never thought existed outside of my mind, some fantasy I thought I’d made up.
Her wit is lethal, the kind that pins you in place and doesn’t let you hide behind charm or performance.
I can’t play a part with her. She looks at me with that steady gaze and the truth just leaves my mouth before I can dress it up.
When her hands are on me, it feels like grace made physical, like being blessed by something I don’t quite believe in but want anyway.
And when she teases, it’s trouble wrapped in sunlight, warm and dangerous but I submit myself to it willingly every time.
My thoughts are loosened by the vodka, the noise, the press of another woman reaching for me and still, all I can see is her.
The poetry in her curves, the melody along her skin, the lyrics on her lips.
The truth isn’t blurred by my intoxication; it’s made clearer.
I could try to stay away, slow the speed of my undoing, but I can’t. I can’t get enough.
When I come back out, Piotr’s insisting they turn a song up louder.
It’s getting late and he’s a little drunk; most of the kids are gone, the few stragglers asleep on the couch, completely oblivious to the ballad pouring through the speakers.
Piano tinkling, soft and beautiful, old-world romantic, the kind that reaches straight through your heart.
Ronan would hate it: slow ballad time, the drums little more than a soft pulse every few bars, all ache and no catharsis.
It’s my sort of melody; one playful run on the keys sends it soaring.
Zosia’s still on the floor, yawning as she rearranges her dolls.
Her head starts to droop until Kasia slides a pillow from the couch beneath her, and she drifts off, mouth parted, hand still resting on the tiny dollhouse balcony.
Kasia looks up at her brother, smiling wide, and though I don’t know what’s going on, I can feel it, something warm and rising in my chest, like watching a secret between siblings unfold in a language older than words.
Piotr waves his arms, shushing everyone. He taps a cousin on the shoulder and they bolt upstairs, a moment later Aga comes down, half-asleep and barefoot, one hand on her belly. “What is it? I just got the baby to sleep.”
He just grins, extending his hand. “Come here.”
She pauses, listening, and then I see it, the realization lighting her face. Kasia walks over to me and leans in close. “That’s their wedding dance,” she whispers. “It’s a classic in Poland.”
I nod, the heat in my chest tightening as the first lyrics float through the speakers.
The voice fits even though I can't understand the words, wistful, a little broken by whatever they're feeling. I watch it unfold. The way she glows seeing her brother like that—it’s love recognizing love. Observing it almost feels like an intrusion but I can’t help it; I can’t stop watching that look on her face.
Piotr pulls Aga close and they start to sway, easy and joyful.
Tata laughs, takes Mama’s hand, and the two of them join.
Soon the whole room softens, turning slow to the rhythm, the kind of peace that makes you want to hold your breath just to keep from breaking it.
You can hear the laughter fading, voices softening, a small circle of people moving as one heartbeat.
I look at Kasia, swallow hard, and hold my hand out.
She takes it without hesitation. We start to sway, pretending it's more for fun than passion, but the truth settles deep and I can't deny what I'm feeling. Blooming, growing. She leans in, her lips near my ear. “It says, I want to stay with you, no matter what. Without you, life isn’t worth living.” She rises on her toes, whispering the last line, breath warm against my skin.
“That problems are nothing to us, when we're together.”