Grand Emilia
Chapter One
Why is it so difficult for a single mother to find a decent man to date? Chiara Belletti puzzled over this question almost every day. Ever-present, it was the question she pondered while on the bus to her job as a cashier at the COOP grocery store in the "Grand Emilia" centro commerciale of Modena. It was the question she pondered while seated at her register ringing up long lines of customers. It was the question she pondered on the bus home in the dark. Naturally, it was a fact she dwelt upon all too often in her bed alone while her children, Laura and Stefania, slept in the next room.
She wasn't willing to put the children through the rigors of getting to know her boyfriends soon after she met them – after all, if the boyfriend left and the girls had gotten attached, what then? Why should three hearts get broken, when perhaps just one might only be moderately wounded?
Not that the offers were pouring in. Chiara found it hard to take seriously any man who might show an interest in her; especially if he persisted after he found out about her two young daughters. Who knew what kind of pervert he might be?
So, instead of introducing him straight away, she kept him away from her girls. They stayed with her mother if he insisted on visiting her at home, or going out – not that it usually got that far.
Sometimes, though, it did.
She would return home in dishabille during the early hours to her empty house, or wake up alone with the bedclothes still warm and pungent from hasty, only vaguely satisfying lovemaking. With the echo of the closing door still in her ears - along with his carelessly handled promises - she would let loose of the tension and anger she kept buried inside. Once or twice the girls had returned to hasty "redecorating" – a clean spot on the floor from sweeping up the remains of some dishes or a dusty knickknack off the shelf couldn't be left alone, could it? – and the evidence of any and all transgressions would be desperately swept away along with the broken crockery before they could spot them.
It is difficult for a single mother to find a decent man to date, and Chiara Belletti despised this fact on a daily basis.
But never more so than after he became a regular in her checkout lane.
It seemed like a strange coincidence at first and nothing more. She had no idea how often he'd come through her lane, but she'd seen him many times before. He never spoke, he just shook his head when she asked if he had a membership card, or he nodded when she asked if he wanted a small bag for his purchases, which were nearly always the same: a variety of selections with which he would, presumably, assemble his lunch. He listened when she told him the total, and he always paid cash – a frustrating act, after a while, as a simple glance at a credit card would give her a chance to put a name to the face.
He often smiled at her, and she cursed herself for admiring him for it. How could it be helped? He was handsomer when he smiled, even though it was a lop-sided effort at best. His chestnut hair was styled perfectly and his clothes – while not fresh off the catwalk – were perfectly respectable, too.
One afternoon, he frequented her lane even though it meant an extra wait for him. She wanted to suggest a speedier checkout to him but couldn't find the nerve. She focused on her work, instead, until the muted "boop" that accompanied each scanned item made her cringe inside. Worse yet, as he stepped up and his meager purchases moved toward her on the belt, he was smiling at her again.
Why does he smile at me like that?
"Boop," went the single mozzarella.
Surely he isn't interested in me?
"Boop," went the small, hard roll of bread.
I have really got to get over myself.
"Boop," went the bottle of Birra Moretti.
Still, it is strange that he makes a habit of coming through my lane.
"Boop," went the bag with two peaches inside.
Maybe he's one of those autistic types who needs a sense of routine?
"Boop," went a pack of Daygum.
No, that can't be it, or else he'd buy the same things every day, right?
“Boop,” went the Pocket Coffee, “Boop” the slices of prosciutto crudo, “Boop,” the copy of Gazzetta di Modena. She hit the total button and looked to him to tell him the amount, but his grin was larger than ever.
"Poodle," he said.
"I'm sorry?" she asked, puzzled.
"Your hair reminds me of a well-groomed poodle." His smile broadened still more and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks.
"Davvero? Really?" She blanched in mortification. Porca vacca! Is that the best I can come up with after someone insults me? She raised one hand to her hair, felt the tight blonde waves she'd inherited from her mother plush beneath her hand.
He was waiting expectantly for something, now, it was clear. She continued gazing mutely up at him, seemingly unable to move at all, until he finally stage-whispered, "Il totale, per favore?"
"Sì, mi scusi," she said, nodding, but he'd already gotten out the exact change for the total visible on the screen next to her. She took his money, handed him the receipt, and he went on his way.
Shortly thereafter she went on her break and told her supervisor she didn't feel at all well.
At home, she asked her mother to pick the girls up from school for her, and she settled down in front of "Carabinieri 7" on TV and permitted herself to cry like a foolish girl who had been rejected by the most popular boy in school, until it was time to claim her daughters for the evening.
Why is it so difficult for a single mother to find a decent man to date? Chiara Belletti puzzled over this question almost every day. Ever-present, it was the question she pondered while on the bus to her job as a cashier at the COOP grocery store in the "Grand Emilia" centro commerciale of Modena. It was the question she pondered while seated at her register ringing up long lines of customers. It was the question she pondered on the bus home in the dark. Naturally, it was a fact she dwelt upon all too often in her bed alone while her children, Laura and Stefania, slept in the next room.
She wasn't willing to put the children through the rigors of getting to know her boyfriends soon after she met them – after all, if the boyfriend left and the girls had gotten attached, what then? Why should three hearts get broken, when perhaps just one might only be moderately wounded?
Not that the offers were pouring in. Chiara found it hard to take seriously any man who might show an interest in her; especially if he persisted after he found out about her two young daughters. Who knew what kind of pervert he might be?
So, instead of introducing him straight away, she kept him away from her girls. They stayed with her mother if he insisted on visiting her at home, or going out – not that it usually got that far.
Sometimes, though, it did.
She would return home in dishabille during the early hours to her empty house, or wake up alone with the bedclothes still warm and pungent from hasty, only vaguely satisfying lovemaking. With the echo of the closing door still in her ears - along with his carelessly handled promises - she would let loose of the tension and anger she kept buried inside. Once or twice the girls had returned to hasty "redecorating" – a clean spot on the floor from sweeping up the remains of some dishes or a dusty knickknack off the shelf couldn't be left alone, could it? – and the evidence of any and all transgressions would be desperately swept away along with the broken crockery before they could spot them.
It is difficult for a single mother to find a decent man to date, and Chiara Belletti despised this fact on a daily basis.
But never more so than after he became a regular in her checkout lane.
It seemed like a strange coincidence at first and nothing more. She had no idea how often he'd come through her lane, but she'd seen him many times before. He never spoke, he just shook his head when she asked if he had a membership card, or he nodded when she asked if he wanted a small bag for his purchases, which were nearly always the same: a variety of selections with which he would, presumably, assemble his lunch. He listened when she told him the total, and he always paid cash – a frustrating act, after a while, as a simple glance at a credit card would give her a chance to put a name to the face.
He often smiled at her, and she cursed herself for admiring him for it. How could it be helped? He was handsomer when he smiled, even though it was a lop-sided effort at best. His chestnut hair was styled perfectly and his clothes – while not fresh off the catwalk – were perfectly respectable, too.
One afternoon, he frequented her lane even though it meant an extra wait for him. She wanted to suggest a speedier checkout to him but couldn't find the nerve. She focused on her work, instead, until the muted "boop" that accompanied each scanned item made her cringe inside. Worse yet, as he stepped up and his meager purchases moved toward her on the belt, he was smiling at her again.
Why does he smile at me like that?
"Boop," went the single mozzarella.
Surely he isn't interested in me?
"Boop," went the small, hard roll of bread.
I have really got to get over myself.
"Boop," went the bottle of Birra Moretti.
Still, it is strange that he makes a habit of coming through my lane.
"Boop," went the bag with two peaches inside.
Maybe he's one of those autistic types who needs a sense of routine?
"Boop," went a pack of Daygum.
No, that can't be it, or else he'd buy the same things every day, right?
“Boop,” went the Pocket Coffee, “Boop” the slices of prosciutto crudo, “Boop,” the copy of Gazzetta di Modena. She hit the total button and looked to him to tell him the amount, but his grin was larger than ever.
"Poodle," he said.
"I'm sorry?" she asked, puzzled.
"Your hair reminds me of a well-groomed poodle." His smile broadened still more and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks.
"Davvero? Really?" She blanched in mortification. Porca vacca! Is that the best I can come up with after someone insults me? She raised one hand to her hair, felt the tight blonde waves she'd inherited from her mother plush beneath her hand.
He was waiting expectantly for something, now, it was clear. She continued gazing mutely up at him, seemingly unable to move at all, until he finally stage-whispered, "Il totale, per favore?"
"Sì, mi scusi," she said, nodding, but he'd already gotten out the exact change for the total visible on the screen next to her. She took his money, handed him the receipt, and he went on his way.
Shortly thereafter she went on her break and told her supervisor she didn't feel at all well.
At home, she asked her mother to pick the girls up from school for her, and she settled down in front of "Carabinieri 7" on TV and permitted herself to cry like a foolish girl who had been rejected by the most popular boy in school, until it was time to claim her daughters for the evening.
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Chapter Two
(coming soon) |
