Angelo and Jerry pounced on the pizza, Angelo in big, hungry bites that drew my eyes to the way he devoured it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two hours later, Esther joined us. She was around my age and had a no-nonsense attitude that I immediately liked.
“It’s a short interview, anywhere between thirty minutes to an hour long inmostcases,” she said as part of a rundown on what to expect the next day. I knew it was going to be the longest hour of my life. “They usually only go over the documents with you to verify the details indicated there, so nothing too dramatic. But they will ask a few basic questions.”
Just when I felt a little relieved, she continued, “Remember, at this stage, you will be in the interview room together, and they will watch your interactions. The questions are usually those that married couples can easily answer, like how and when you met. But know that people fail at the silliest questions, like did he kneel when proposing?”
“No,” both Angelo and I said together absentmindedly.
Esther’s and Jerry’s laughter startled us, and Angelo turned his blue eyes to me. When our gazes locked, we both expelled a nervous chuckle.
“What other questions might they ask?” Angelo asked in his surprisingly perfect grammar. “I looked online, but you know better.”
“It could be anything, but usually about how you met, when you decided to marry, which side of the bed each sleeps on, names of immediate family members—things like that. They may offer you coffee and ask one of you how the other takes his drink or how many cups a day you have. They might look beforehand on your social media to see if you have each other’s pictures on.”
“I locked my profile,” Angelo said, just when I said, “I don’t use it except for my shops’ pages.”
“In your case, you have to be prepared to answer a question about your living arrangements with the two apartments and your age difference.”
“We covered these topics,” I replied and repeated what we had agreed upon before she had arrived. Because Esther didn’t know the truth, citing it to her felt like a dry run for tomorrow.
“Okay, then.” Esther slapped her palms on her thighs and got up. “Jerry,” she hinted at him to follow her. They went to stand at the distant window of the living room, leaving Angelo and me in silence together.
He was on the sofa and I on the chair facing him, both of us busying ourselves with the printed documents and avoiding eye contact, as if afraid to admit we were on the verge of deep shit with a total stranger. A stranger who we now knew more about than most people did. Strangers who seemed oddly in synch—we both occupied alone different sides of our separate beds, we both said that our decision to marry was mutual and that there was no ceremonious proposal. But while he drank espresso twice in three hours, I drank herbal tea. His bathroom had the most common type of liquid soap still in its plastic container, as I noted on my visit there to pee, and his brand of toilet paper wouldn’t cross the threshold of my store.
After Esther and Jerry whispered among themselves, he came back and said, “From this point on, Esther will be consulting you. She’ll keep me updated.”
It was then that Angelo and I both shifted our gazes from Jerry and looked at each other. Our eyes locked together. I wondered if he realized, like me, that this was no longer a business deal between the three of us and that we were alone in this, together.
I also realized that it wasn’t an older generation’s preference to always call and never text, but a means Jerry had smartly applied to keep himself out of harm’s way if Angelo and I went down with our ship. I should have guessed. After all, Jerry had first rented the shop in Wayford to me, and only after it had been open and running had he told me that the antique shop next door wanted to buy my space. He had given me a first right of refusal if I’d buy it instead.
When they both left, it was just me and Angelo. Tomorrow, I’d have to pretend that he was my beloved husband. Looking at him, however, who would believe that this gorgeous man, who looked like women were falling for him left, right, and center, and who seemed aware of his good looks, would marry a woman ten years older than him?
We picked up the scattered papers and stacked them in two piles; one his, one mine. I then helped him carry the cups and empty boxes to the kitchen.
“So,” I expelled over a breath, “I’ll see you tomorrow, nine a.m.” I picked up my purse and turned toward the front door.
Angelo escorted me. “See you,” he said, looking at me.
I averted my gaze from his eyes, a bright contrast to his otherwise darker features that made up the type of male beauty any normal woman would crave touching. Maybe even me.
I wanted to leave, but my feet felt glued to the floor. “Good luck,” I added, reminding myself that we were dependent on each other. Then I took a deep breath and turned to leave.
Angelo suddenly grabbed my hand, stopping me. “Good luck,” he said, his eyes holding mine, concern tinging their depths.
I gave him what I thought was an encouraging smile. “It’ll be okay.”
He lingered his hold, my left hand in his left. Our wedding rings shined together.
My eyes were trained on them. We were in this together. This foreign, younger man with the accent and I were in the same boat, and it was up to us if we’d sink or float.
8
Angelo
Why were the walls of every government office in the world always painted gray?
