THIRD LANGUAGE

BY IRYNA SOMKINA

January 18, 2026

“Order anything you want,” the men said in unison.

I ordered beer.

That was the cue.

They were waiting for us. Exchange students, a year up. We met them outside. The girls from my course hadn’t mentioned there would be others.

No point sitting in the dorm, they said.

We went to a bar. Dark, loud. One of those places where you always lean in.

One of the men, from the east, settled on the girl with dark hair and dark, vivid eyes.

The other, from the west, chose the one with cold blue eyes and almost colorless hair.

The girls spoke our native tongue; I rendered it in English.

I translated the names. I translated what followed.

I translated the jokes, the flirting, the half-sentences that begged for tone. My own jokes, too. The men laughed. The girls laughed.

The rhythm was good. Nothing stalled. I kept translating.

Glasses were filled. I translated that. Someone leaned in closer. Words mattered less now.

Under the table, one man touched his girlfriend’s knee. The gesture was calm, unhidden. I saw it. I kept translating.

More drinks. Laughter. I stayed still. The conversation moved easily, never stopping on me. Without me, it wouldn’t have moved at all.

Time to leave. Taxis were called. The girls left with the men. A taxi was called for me too. I got in alone.

Outside, the November rain was warm. The driver asked for the address. I gave it. The car pulled away.

That was the only thing all evening that didn’t pass through my mouth first.

Iryna Somkina is a Kyiv-based author who returned to writing a year ago after a decade of silence. She is Best Small Fiction nominee; her works appear in Gone Lawn, ANMLY, Livina Press, Star 82 Review and The Literary Underground. She explores visibility, coming-of-age, memory and grief.