Free The Last Hiccup by Christopher Meades

to Asenka and back to Alexander again. His rival’s face flushed with embarrassment. Alexander even appeared contrite. In the recesses of his mind, Sergei thought perhaps somehow he could one day understand Alexander’s role in all of this. But he could never forgive Asenka for what she’d done — for what she was doing even now at this very moment. Just the sight of her, with her full-length white gown accentuating the magnificence of her every curve, her long gloves and dark smoking pen, those wondrous bright blue eyes — everything about her enraged Sergei. He hated her magnificent cheekbones and chiseled pert little nose. He hated her very existence.
    Sergei’s gaze drifted to Asenka’s purse where, from out of the far corner, popped the head of the smallest dog ever bred in Russia. The blue Chihuahua, named for the subtle hint of indigo in its coat, had been banned by the government. At issue was the inbreeding process that produced a high number of deformities. To get that blue Chihuahua, the average litter of five dogs included at minimum four with unspeakably gross birth defects. This was the prize animal to escape the womb intact, the only one out of a hundred deemed fit for sale. It was a marvel of science that this little creature had survived. And all Sergei wanted to do was strangle it with his bare hands.
    â€œOld friend . . .” Alexander said.
    â€œDo not speak,” Sergei said.
    Asenka let out a caustic laugh. “Sergei,” she said, “your jacket doesn’t match your pants.”
    A tempest formed within Sergei. His rage, simmering now for months, finally reached full boil. Asenka had kissed his enemy right in front of him! And he had accepted her embrace. Still she languished in his arms! Now she dared to take issue with what he was wearing? What he had been forced to wear? Good Lord, was there no limit to the injustice?
    In a sudden spastic motion, Sergei ripped the black jacket off his body and threw it wildly to the ground. His eyes glazed over. He clenched his fists and stepped forward.
    â€œBe reasonable,” Alexander said.
    But Sergei was beyond all reason. He reached out and grabbed Alexander by the collar. Before he could throttle him, the two doormen took hold of Sergei and a small skirmish erupted. The doormen wrestled Sergei to the ground only to find they were unable to hold him there; so great was Sergei’s fury that he struggled to his feet and made another unsuccessful lunge at Alexander. Asenka stepped forward and slapped Sergei square across the face, leaving a red mark that would last for days. Sergei, however, would not be deterred. He stumbled back against the buffet table, surrounded on all sides by the angry doormen, a befuddled Alexander and his malicious concubine. In the midst of it all, the maître d’ was bellowing out orders to anyone who would listen.
    Sergei was about to be overcome. In a moment of panic, he reached back and grasped the large punch bowl, still three quarters full of bright red juice and an assortment of fruit slices. He lifted it above his head and threatened the growing crowd.
    â€œStand back,” he said. “I will splash you all.”
    â€œThink of what you’re about to do,” the maître d’ said.
    â€œYes, Sergei. Put it down,” Alexander said.
    From the back, dozens of voices joined in.
    â€œDon’t throw it.”
    â€œYou’ll ruin my dress.”
    â€œFor the love of God, man, you’re at a formal function!”
    Each of them pleaded with Sergei to set the bowl down. Every voice, that is, except Asenka’s. She stepped to the front of the crowd and faced Sergei eye to eye.
    â€œDo not fear, good people.” She raised her arms with authority. “Sergei will not throw the bowl. It’s just not in his nature. He doesn’t have the nerve to do it.”
    Sergei stared straight at Asenka, who in turn looked back at him fearlessly.