Key Party
—
Mario Aliberto III
Okay lads, car keys go in the fishbowl, Theo says.
Malorie expects this will be the last time they host Game Night with their friends. Dan and Lori. Frank and Stella. All of them empty nesters, Malorie the youngest among them at fifty-three. She’s fine with it ending if it must. She’s never been particularly good at games.
Theo raises the fishbowl, as if holding it higher will make it all make sense. Ladies, once we receive all the keys, you’ll pick a set. Whoever’s keys you get, that’s who you go home with. Can’t be your husband’s.
Malorie sits among their friends on white Ikea Uppland sectionals, basking in the tipsiness of ten-dollar supermarket wine. Rainbow fans of Uno cards lie abandoned on a folding table as they watch Theo perform his shtick. He stands in the middle of the living room, doofy smile and flop sweat on his brow, fishbowl in his hands like a beggar pleading for alms. The fishbowl isn’t even glass, but cheap plastic, once filled with a blue rum slushie concoction from a long-ago alcohol-fueled night out at a tiki-themed bar off the intercostal. It might have been the last time Theo and she fucked each other.
Their guests look from Theo to Malorie. Smiling eyes asking if this is a joke. They had expected Monopoly. Yahtzee. Clue.
Malorie doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she sips her wine. She could pretend she has no idea what Theo is up to. Play innocent. But they talked about this. She wanted something to spice their lives up, or at least that’s the story she concocted for Theo. She suggested the fishbowl and keys from a movie she watched once. Theo thought she was being very mature about it. Better than having secret affairs. How evolved they were!
Malorie feels as if she is on display. Their friends look her up and down. Her armpits damp. Theo’s a bit goofy, but silver-haired and in a way that is totally unfair, and has only grown into his looks as he’s aged. She’s caught the other wives flirting with him over the years. Suspected more than that. Confirmed enough.
Come on now, Theo says. You only live once. I’ll go first. Theo drops his messy ring of keys into the fishbowl with a jangle like breaking glass. Their company giggles nervously as if it’s a stage show. A performance.
Stella asks Malorie, Did you put him up to this? We know Theo likes to joke around, but this? Frank looks at Stella, big smile, sweating a bit as well, and gulps his whiskey. I need another drink, he says, standing and pouring himself a double from the bar cart. Easy there, Stella teases, you might actually think they’re serious. In fact, leave your keys here.
Nervous laughter.
Malorie strokes her bottom lip with a finger. Can’t make your own decisions, Frank?
Stella says, He listens to me.
Does that apply to all husbands, or just yours? Malorie asks. She can almost hear Theo gulp.
Oh, I might just throw my keys in, Dan says, patting his pockets, breaking the tension.
I’d have to give you your balls back first, Lori says. They all laugh, even Dan.
Theo looks at Malorie. His hands are shaking. She sips her drink.
Could you imagine? Lori says. Dan, honey, Malorie would tear you apart. You get out of breath walking up a flight of steps.
Theo sets the fishbowl down, the lonely jangle of his keys. He makes himself a cocktail and sits by Malorie’s side.
Malorie lowers her gaze to the feet of her guests. All the men’s legs manspread apart. Black-socked feet protruding from department store slacks. The women’s feet are bare. Painted toes, including Stella’s, whose pinkie toe scratches playfully at Theo’s ankle. Stella’s calves, sleek and smooth and contoured like ocean waves.
I have another game we can play as couples, Malorie says. She gathers the Uno cards, shuffles, and deals them out. Whoever plays a wild card gets to select a couple for a dare. If the couple doesn’t complete the dare, they are out of the game.
Oh, Stella says, I thought Theo was the spicy one. She laughs and shares a conspiratorial glance with Lori, as if they have talked about Malorie before, just like this.
Malorie plays a wild card from her hand. Well, looks like I get to make a dare. Malorie locks eyes with Stella.Stella, I dare you to put Frank’s keys in the fishbowl.
Stella stiffens. Frank dribbles a bit of his drink onto his polo and wipes his mouth. He suppresses a smile as Stella places a flat hand on his knee, as if he were a balloon to be held down.
I don’t want to play this game, Stella says.
Come on, you’ve never thought about switching it up? Or maybe you’ve never had to imagine your husband with anyone else? Malorie puts a hand on Theo’s shoulder. He won’t look at her. Now, keys in the fishbowl, or you forfeit the game.
We’re not doing this, Stella says. Maybe we’ve all had too much to drink. We’re leaving.
Then you lose, Malorie says, laying down her Uno cards face up, every card wild. •
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Mario Aliberto III is the author of All the Dead We Have Yet to Bury (Chestnut Review, 2025), and his short fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Fractured Lit, The Pinch, and other fine journals. A graduate with a Creative Writing degree from the University of South Florida, he lives in Tampa Bay with his wife and daughters, and yet the dog still runs the house.
Website | Twitter | Bluesky | Instagram
Malorie expects this will be the last time they host Game Night with their friends. Dan and Lori. Frank and Stella. All of them empty nesters, Malorie the youngest among them at fifty-three. She’s fine with it ending if it must. She’s never been particularly good at games.
Theo raises the fishbowl, as if holding it higher will make it all make sense. Ladies, once we receive all the keys, you’ll pick a set. Whoever’s keys you get, that’s who you go home with. Can’t be your husband’s.
Malorie sits among their friends on white Ikea Uppland sectionals, basking in the tipsiness of ten-dollar supermarket wine. Rainbow fans of Uno cards lie abandoned on a folding table as they watch Theo perform his shtick. He stands in the middle of the living room, doofy smile and flop sweat on his brow, fishbowl in his hands like a beggar pleading for alms. The fishbowl isn’t even glass, but cheap plastic, once filled with a blue rum slushie concoction from a long-ago alcohol-fueled night out at a tiki-themed bar off the intercostal. It might have been the last time Theo and she fucked each other.
Their guests look from Theo to Malorie. Smiling eyes asking if this is a joke. They had expected Monopoly. Yahtzee. Clue.
Malorie doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she sips her wine. She could pretend she has no idea what Theo is up to. Play innocent. But they talked about this. She wanted something to spice their lives up, or at least that’s the story she concocted for Theo. She suggested the fishbowl and keys from a movie she watched once. Theo thought she was being very mature about it. Better than having secret affairs. How evolved they were!
Malorie feels as if she is on display. Their friends look her up and down. Her armpits damp. Theo’s a bit goofy, but silver-haired and in a way that is totally unfair, and has only grown into his looks as he’s aged. She’s caught the other wives flirting with him over the years. Suspected more than that. Confirmed enough.
Come on now, Theo says. You only live once. I’ll go first. Theo drops his messy ring of keys into the fishbowl with a jangle like breaking glass. Their company giggles nervously as if it’s a stage show. A performance.
Stella asks Malorie, Did you put him up to this? We know Theo likes to joke around, but this? Frank looks at Stella, big smile, sweating a bit as well, and gulps his whiskey. I need another drink, he says, standing and pouring himself a double from the bar cart. Easy there, Stella teases, you might actually think they’re serious. In fact, leave your keys here.
Nervous laughter.
Malorie strokes her bottom lip with a finger. Can’t make your own decisions, Frank?
Stella says, He listens to me.
Does that apply to all husbands, or just yours? Malorie asks. She can almost hear Theo gulp.
Oh, I might just throw my keys in, Dan says, patting his pockets, breaking the tension.
I’d have to give you your balls back first, Lori says. They all laugh, even Dan.
Theo looks at Malorie. His hands are shaking. She sips her drink.
Could you imagine? Lori says. Dan, honey, Malorie would tear you apart. You get out of breath walking up a flight of steps.
Theo sets the fishbowl down, the lonely jangle of his keys. He makes himself a cocktail and sits by Malorie’s side.
Malorie lowers her gaze to the feet of her guests. All the men’s legs manspread apart. Black-socked feet protruding from department store slacks. The women’s feet are bare. Painted toes, including Stella’s, whose pinkie toe scratches playfully at Theo’s ankle. Stella’s calves, sleek and smooth and contoured like ocean waves.
I have another game we can play as couples, Malorie says. She gathers the Uno cards, shuffles, and deals them out. Whoever plays a wild card gets to select a couple for a dare. If the couple doesn’t complete the dare, they are out of the game.
Oh, Stella says, I thought Theo was the spicy one. She laughs and shares a conspiratorial glance with Lori, as if they have talked about Malorie before, just like this.
Malorie plays a wild card from her hand. Well, looks like I get to make a dare. Malorie locks eyes with Stella.Stella, I dare you to put Frank’s keys in the fishbowl.
Stella stiffens. Frank dribbles a bit of his drink onto his polo and wipes his mouth. He suppresses a smile as Stella places a flat hand on his knee, as if he were a balloon to be held down.
I don’t want to play this game, Stella says.
Come on, you’ve never thought about switching it up? Or maybe you’ve never had to imagine your husband with anyone else? Malorie puts a hand on Theo’s shoulder. He won’t look at her. Now, keys in the fishbowl, or you forfeit the game.
We’re not doing this, Stella says. Maybe we’ve all had too much to drink. We’re leaving.
Then you lose, Malorie says, laying down her Uno cards face up, every card wild. •
Mario Aliberto III is the author of All the Dead We Have Yet to Bury (Chestnut Review, 2025), and his short fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Fractured Lit, The Pinch, and other fine journals. A graduate with a Creative Writing degree from the University of South Florida, he lives in Tampa Bay with his wife and daughters, and yet the dog still runs the house.
Website | Twitter | Bluesky | Instagram