Grand Emilia
Chapter Two
The next morning life was back to normal. Stefania put up a fuss about going to school, and in the pre-dawn darkness, Chiara considered letting her have her way.
I could stay home, too. I'll just say that my mother couldn't come to stay with her, or –
Instead, she shook her head and steeled her resolve, and in the end, Stefania was merrily skipping along the pavement with her hand in Laura's.
I wish I could bounce back so quickly. It's stupid of me to let this bother me so much. He was joking, I guess. Maybe that's it. Why would he feel compelled to insult me, anyway? It just doesn't make any sense.
She rode the usual bus to work with her "single mother – decent man" mantra running in her head, scarcely noticing her surroundings, ever the same as they were. She nearly missed her stop and had to scramble to the door before the driver could resume the route.
As the lunch hour approached, she felt herself growing more uncertain.
Will he come, today? Or will he realize that what he said wasn't exactly kind and avoid me? Or does he even know, or care?
She wasn't sure how to feel when she glanced up between customers and saw him at the end of the queue, waiting for his turn.
"Checkout number seven just opened," she said, loud enough for everyone in the queue, but purely for his benefit. A few people peeled away and filed into line at number seven but he remained where he was, smiling.
It was worth a try.
Chiara scanned his purchases without acknowledging him or what he'd selected, and tried not to rush to send him away.
"I was wrong, yesterday, when I said you reminded me of a poodle," he said, without embarrassment or timidity.
"Really?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral, though inside she was quivering.
"Yes. I was actually thinking of a Maltese."
Disappointment flooded into her, pushing her strength down and out through her feet. "A Maltese?"
"Yes. They're more elegant, after all. Your hair is very much like a Maltese's."
"Oh."
He handed her the exact change and she handed him his receipt in turn, after he'd slid his purchases into a small bag. "Buon dì," he chirped, and loped away.
"Anche a Lei," she murmured, then shook her head and began scanning the next customer's goods, disappointed and puzzled. I don't even know what a Maltese looks like.
That evening she called her sister, Alessia, and asked if she knew what a Maltese dog looked like.
"I don't," Alessia answered, "but I think Tony has a book of dog breeds somewhere in his room. Do you want me to bring it over?"
"No, that's not necessary. Another time, maybe. It's not important, anyway."
She put the girls to bed and went to her bedroom to sit in front of her mirror and fuss with her hair. The thick, blonde waves curled around her fingers easily, and she spun and twirled and pulled and twisted them into all manner of styles and shapes, wondering what she would look like without her mother's generous gift. The fact that the pale blonde curls were natural spoke of something somehow exotic in the family genes.
Men often noticed her hair first. In his own, strange way, this dog fancier was no different than the rest, from those who had fetishized and adored it, worshipped it and treated it like a living thing. There were even those who had requested strange acts with her hair, and though she'd refused them, she carried the implied shame with her for a long while afterwards.
But this fellow wasn't like them, she was sure of it. He obviously didn't mean any harm; in fact, he seemed oblivious to the fact that anything he said to her could hurt her feelings in any way.
All the same, she didn't care to be compared to a breed of dog.
Chiara put on her nightgown and got into bed, listening to the tossing and turning of Laura in the next room. Her daughter slept deeply, but actively, sometimes waking with long bruises after she'd slapped her arm or leg against the wall with a frighteningly solid thud or two.
Chiara lay still, listening to be sure that Laura hadn't wakened, or Stefania. In time she drifted off to sleep as well, satisfied with the ensuing silence, and she dreamed of puppies, hundreds of them, with long wavy coats, rolling around on the floor of her house.
She awoke before the alarm went off, and sat in the silence before the signal that her day had to begin. She couldn't help picturing his face, again and again, with the lopsided grin and dark, almond-shaped eyes. She hadn't thought much about them, before, but now, in the bluish pre-dawn light, she saw them clearly in her mind's eye. She thought about his eyes some more, then pictured the shape of his mouth even when he wasn't smiling, and she felt a pleasant warmth in her belly. She shivered a little and hugged her knees for warmth. Pressing her mouth to her forearm and closing her eyes, she imagined his mouth again, his lips against hers.
The alarm went off and she awoke from her early-morning daydream, feeling a deep blush warm her face and neck.
Santo Cielo, she thought, this is ridiculous. She threw the covers off and put her slippers on and went to wake her daughters for school, still slightly feverish. I must be coming down with something. It's the only explanation.
The next morning life was back to normal. Stefania put up a fuss about going to school, and in the pre-dawn darkness, Chiara considered letting her have her way.
I could stay home, too. I'll just say that my mother couldn't come to stay with her, or –
Instead, she shook her head and steeled her resolve, and in the end, Stefania was merrily skipping along the pavement with her hand in Laura's.
I wish I could bounce back so quickly. It's stupid of me to let this bother me so much. He was joking, I guess. Maybe that's it. Why would he feel compelled to insult me, anyway? It just doesn't make any sense.
She rode the usual bus to work with her "single mother – decent man" mantra running in her head, scarcely noticing her surroundings, ever the same as they were. She nearly missed her stop and had to scramble to the door before the driver could resume the route.
As the lunch hour approached, she felt herself growing more uncertain.
Will he come, today? Or will he realize that what he said wasn't exactly kind and avoid me? Or does he even know, or care?
She wasn't sure how to feel when she glanced up between customers and saw him at the end of the queue, waiting for his turn.
"Checkout number seven just opened," she said, loud enough for everyone in the queue, but purely for his benefit. A few people peeled away and filed into line at number seven but he remained where he was, smiling.
It was worth a try.
Chiara scanned his purchases without acknowledging him or what he'd selected, and tried not to rush to send him away.
"I was wrong, yesterday, when I said you reminded me of a poodle," he said, without embarrassment or timidity.
"Really?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral, though inside she was quivering.
"Yes. I was actually thinking of a Maltese."
Disappointment flooded into her, pushing her strength down and out through her feet. "A Maltese?"
"Yes. They're more elegant, after all. Your hair is very much like a Maltese's."
"Oh."
He handed her the exact change and she handed him his receipt in turn, after he'd slid his purchases into a small bag. "Buon dì," he chirped, and loped away.
"Anche a Lei," she murmured, then shook her head and began scanning the next customer's goods, disappointed and puzzled. I don't even know what a Maltese looks like.
That evening she called her sister, Alessia, and asked if she knew what a Maltese dog looked like.
"I don't," Alessia answered, "but I think Tony has a book of dog breeds somewhere in his room. Do you want me to bring it over?"
"No, that's not necessary. Another time, maybe. It's not important, anyway."
She put the girls to bed and went to her bedroom to sit in front of her mirror and fuss with her hair. The thick, blonde waves curled around her fingers easily, and she spun and twirled and pulled and twisted them into all manner of styles and shapes, wondering what she would look like without her mother's generous gift. The fact that the pale blonde curls were natural spoke of something somehow exotic in the family genes.
Men often noticed her hair first. In his own, strange way, this dog fancier was no different than the rest, from those who had fetishized and adored it, worshipped it and treated it like a living thing. There were even those who had requested strange acts with her hair, and though she'd refused them, she carried the implied shame with her for a long while afterwards.
But this fellow wasn't like them, she was sure of it. He obviously didn't mean any harm; in fact, he seemed oblivious to the fact that anything he said to her could hurt her feelings in any way.
All the same, she didn't care to be compared to a breed of dog.
Chiara put on her nightgown and got into bed, listening to the tossing and turning of Laura in the next room. Her daughter slept deeply, but actively, sometimes waking with long bruises after she'd slapped her arm or leg against the wall with a frighteningly solid thud or two.
Chiara lay still, listening to be sure that Laura hadn't wakened, or Stefania. In time she drifted off to sleep as well, satisfied with the ensuing silence, and she dreamed of puppies, hundreds of them, with long wavy coats, rolling around on the floor of her house.
She awoke before the alarm went off, and sat in the silence before the signal that her day had to begin. She couldn't help picturing his face, again and again, with the lopsided grin and dark, almond-shaped eyes. She hadn't thought much about them, before, but now, in the bluish pre-dawn light, she saw them clearly in her mind's eye. She thought about his eyes some more, then pictured the shape of his mouth even when he wasn't smiling, and she felt a pleasant warmth in her belly. She shivered a little and hugged her knees for warmth. Pressing her mouth to her forearm and closing her eyes, she imagined his mouth again, his lips against hers.
The alarm went off and she awoke from her early-morning daydream, feeling a deep blush warm her face and neck.
Santo Cielo, she thought, this is ridiculous. She threw the covers off and put her slippers on and went to wake her daughters for school, still slightly feverish. I must be coming down with something. It's the only explanation.
