8
ROMEO
I makepasta with spicy tomato sauce, and we eat on the couch in the living room, a Roy Orbison album playing in the background. I’ve never cooked a meal for a woman before. My mom taught me to cook; she said that it wasn’t a woman’s work, and that if I wanted to eat, I ought to know how to make decent food instead of living out of packets and frozen meals.
I never thanked my mom before. But the sheer joy of watching Sara eat is all down to her, and I make a mental note to buy her flowers next time I see her.
“What did your boss mean, you had your head in the clouds all day?” I ask.
Sara swallows a mouthful of pasta and washes it down with white wine. “I couldn’t concentrate. I was worried about you.” She winces as if she didn’t want me to hear this.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“I know… but…”
“Hey.” I set my bowl aside and pull her into my lap. It’s my favorite place for Sara to sit. Maybe I’m needy, but everything feels right when we’re touching; I only wish that I didn’t have to be apart from her when I’m working. “It’s just a job, Sara. I know what I’m doing, and I trust the guys I work with to have my back.”
She nuzzles my neck. “Do you trust Elio?”
“Sure, I do. He would protect me with his life.”
“I thought it was your job to protect him.”
“It is.” I kiss the top of her head and hold her tighter. “But it works both ways. Your boss is looking out for you too.”
“I’m a nail technician. It’s different.”
I want to tell her that it’s no different, but Sara doesn’t put herself in dangerous situations in her line of work. Maybe I can’t stop her from worrying about me, but I can make her feel better about herself. She seems to have gotten stuck with the idea that she’d have been more worthy of love if she’d gone to college and qualified as an accountant, and I need her to know that I’ve never met anyone more worthy in my life.
“Paint my nails.”
She extricates herself from my arms and studies me with furrowed brow. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. I want to see you at work, Sara. I want to know how your clients feel when you do their nails.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “Why?”
“Because I want to know every part of you.” I’m not good at this, I never seem to know the right thing to say, but sheponders it for a few beats, her eyes searching deep into my soul.
“What about if you get called to a job?”
I shrug. “Then I’ll have to go.”
“With pink nails?”
“No one will notice.”
She strokes my hand, rubbing her fingertips across my blunt nails. “How would you feel if they did?”
Honestly, I don’t know, but there’s only one way to find out. “They might tease me about it, but I’m still bigger than everyone else.”
Sara laughs, and it’s a sound that I could never tire of hearing. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I don’t understand the issue. People can wear whatever the hell they want; it’s nobody’s business but their own. The color of a person’s fingernails and whether they choose to paint them, bite them down to nothing, or turn them into deadly talons, isn’t a reflection of who they are on the inside.
Sara fetches her purse from the hallway where she dropped it when we came in and kneels in front of me. She produces nail clippers, a travel-sized bottle of lotion, a thin file, and a bottle of nail polish. Pink. Baby pink which I guess is less noticeable than the Swedish Fish version of the color.
