“While unheard of in those days, Eleanora was the one to make the first move,” Dario says, a winsome smile spreading across his face.Is Dario Cotogna a romantic?Charlie needs to take note of these things so he can tailor his approach. Make up for his lack in other areas. “During one of their lengthy meetings with the suits in power, she wrote him a note on an empty chocolate wrapper. This became their primary mode of communication. It turned from friendly notes to love notes, creating the basis for the love notes that we have printed inside our wrappers ever since the beginning of Amorina.”
Charlie has always adored those little messages.You are starshine. The world is kinder because of you. You lead with love, and I follow.They are always written in Italian first and then a dozen or so other languages beneath. He enjoys picking up different words or phrases from foreign tongues, sounding them out for an audience of the empty liquor store. It gives him a sense of connection to the greater humanity.
The next interactive exhibit is a Write Your Own Wrap station. Several computers are set up in a row beside a large printer. On a pedestal nearby is a pyramid of glistening, gold-foiled chocolate bars. “Go on. Try it out for yourself,” says a petite blonde woman.
Everyone nabs a stool and brainstorms messages.
Michelle settles on “Love is the finest luxury,” while Beau writes a near-perfect lyric, “Even the sweetest bite is better with you by my side.” Off he goes on a tangent of creative genius, pouring poetry into his phone, forgetting to send his wrapper to print. Michelle fiddles with the font, accompanying imagesand layout of the wrapper, clearly utilizing her designer’s eye to create visual balance.
Ansel, however, seems more interested in the woman in the tight Amorina polo than the activity. “Do I spy a Junghans Max Bill Damen on your wrist?” he asks, sidling up beside her. Charlie would have never noticed the slender, unimposing tan band she has on.
“Si.” The worker seems to perk up at the attention, and a blush spreads across her already-rosy cheeks when he asks to see it. He plants a kiss on the back of her hand.
“Did you use the quick hook system to match the strap to your work outfit?” he asks, one eyebrow raised in total flirt mode. Charlie tries not to make it obvious that he is watching every second of this juicy show.
“It’s like you were there when I got dressed this morning,” the worker says, her voice upbeat and airy.
Ansel’s upturned mouth grows wolfish. “I wish I had been there when you got dressed this morning. You wear it well. All of it,” he says, eyes scanning over her while she giggles.
Is Dario seeing this? Does he care?
Charlie focuses back on his screen, trying to shed the proximal ick slicked to his skin from that overheard exchange.
A slideshow of messages scroll across the screen before taking him to an open dialogue box. He can either type in his own message or use the pre-scripted prompts that have blanks to fill in and a list of words beneath each empty line. He chooses his own simple message:I hear love in every step when I walk beside you.
“That’s beautiful,” comes a voice from behind Charlie.
Dario stands over him. Even sitting, Charlie still comes up to Dario’s collarbone, marking their height difference. “I can’t take credit for it. My grandma wrote it in a card to my grandpa for their anniversary right after he lost his foot.”
“Oddio! I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, hand floating onto Charlie’s shoulder. This might seem overly familiar from anyone else in the group, but Charlie understands that Italians are expressive, feely people, and he unconsciously leans into the touch. “How did it happen?”
“I’m from an old mining town. A piece of slate fell on his foot and, sparing you the gory details, yeah. Factory production is dangerous work,” he says, then recalls where they are and what Dario does. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.”
Dario nods contemplatively. “Still, that’s a hefty price to pay for going to work.”
“Thankless, low-paying work at that,” Charlie says, unsure why he is disclosing all this other than he feels like he has known Dario a lot longer than a day. Maybe it’s that cherubic face that makes him want to spill his whole life story, or the fedora that makes him feel like he’s speaking to a newspaperman from the 1950s. A hat like that would usually make Charlie cringe, but in Italy, on Dario, it seems suave.
“Safety and fair pay are important parts of factory operations in food production. I make it my mission to ensure those two facets never go unattended at Amorina,” Dario says, eyes brimming with kindness and true care for those that work under him. “I can hardly imagine what your family has gone through.”
Charlie shudders at this. Spilling his whole story—everythinghis family has gone through—would require a lot more time than he has and a lot more liquid courage than is appropriate for a midday museum tour. He can’t quite come out and say,I want to marry you so we don’t lose our house, now, can he?
Charlie smiles and says, “Yeah, but we make do. There is always hope. My grandpa may have never walked again, but then he came into some settlement money and got a prosthetic.”
“That explains the walking sentiment.” Dario juts his chin back toward the computer screen.
Charlie expands his smile. “The card is tacked up on a corkboard in my grandparents’ room. I see it every time I bring them their meals. Like I mentioned, they’re mostly bedridden these days.”
“The prosthetic doesn’t work?” Dario asks with a surprising amount of genuine interest. People with the kind of wealth Dario was born into don’t usually need to cultivate qualities like curiosity. It heartens him that Dario has done the work of self-betterment so many seem not to bother with.
“Prosthetics get worn down over time. They’re supposed to be replaced every three to five years, I think. At this point, it’s almost definitely been over five years. From what I understand, prosthetics with their government-issued insurance are near impossible to get these days. There is finding a prosthetist that takes Medicare, paying the twenty percent—that’s if you met your deductible—co-pay, waiting for the custom prosthetic,” Charlie says, remembering what financial burdens they were already under before the foreclosure warning. Debt is a hungry, stinking sinkhole.
“The American health care system has always baffled me. What ails your grandma?” he asks.
“She has gout, and when it flares, which it often does, she finds it fiery and painful to get up and move about. My grandpa is so devoted to her that he wouldn’t ever think to leave her alone in bed when she’s in a state like that.” Every day, Charlie sees what true love looks like, for which he counts himself immensely lucky. Especially because when he figured out his sexuality, he assumed that kind of simple, happy love wasn’t meant for him. That he was doomed to a lifetime of bachelordom. This week probably won’t change that, but there’s hope that it could, and he clings to that.
Dario nods in understanding. “That love note rings bittersweet now.”
Charlie considers the black text on the white background again. “Yeah, I guess so.” His smile fades away.
