Reynard blows a smoke ring like it’s another question. The ice crackles a little in the bag and Stanford looks at him again before heaving his way back into the cheery maelstrom of the wedding. The air is roaring with sweat and cumin, and most of the dancers are in the same small circle shouting along with the second verse so loudly they sound like a real crowd. The groom’s smile looks so pleased. Stanford walks along the wall to the bar, where Martin nods his thanks. Nina, her hair askew but still glamorous, leans across the bar, fiddling with a sprig of mint, mid-something.

“—how they treat animals is important,” she is saying, with very bright eyes. “Animals are an important key to how men behave.”

Stanford puts one hand on Martin. “I’m going to gather empties.”

“Yes,” Martin says, over the music. “Go anywhere but here, I would.”

Nina pouts cute, and Stanford grabs four empty beer bottles and two bottles of bubbly, one of which is empty. He makes a quick jaunt-check around the porch, where two women are nuzzling, lovers or drunk or both, and a guitar leans in its case in the corner, bohemia still striving in such an expensive town. Lil is sitting in a large wooden chair, frown and furniture both looking like they were made for her. Stanford asks if he can get her something, and she tells him not to be ridiculous. He circles the building, the beats of the song submerged inside, and tosses everything but the not-empty bottle into a bin. Reynard is so near so quick Stanford almost drops it, and then it’s gone from his fist and Reynard is kissing him right under the rain gutters.

“We gotta take a walk,” Stanford says. “I don’t want to get fired.”

“I’m lucky my work is done,” Reynard says, and they desert the party together, down the road farther from civilization. Oh, not really. It’s a small wood. But a wild patch, away from the bustle, spikes the feeling that anything might go down. It’s dark quick, Reynard’s linen suit walking with Stanford’s shirt like their occupants have vanished into the shadowiness. The bottle moves back and forth. Stanford feels a little prickly and wonders if he is being watched, and when he turns to face Reynard, the vicar’s eyes are burning right toward him.

“They say these woods are haunted,” Reynard says.

“You for sure are not a religious dude.” The bubbles still popping on Stanford’s tongue make Reynard’s deception seem clever, instead of whatever it actually is. He’s young, Stanford reminds himself, strong, and wants to be here on this path. It’s been a while, as almost every man feels, since he’s been laid.