“We’ll go over your file now,” he continued when we sat back down. His formal smile only made him look more intimidating than if he hadn’t smiled at all.
We were all silent for a long time with the only sounds being the papers he was rifling through and the low murmur of the air-conditioning and the hard drive of his desktop computer. A distant cell phone rang. A Bruno Mars song.
Cazzo—fuck!
I didn’t know what June’s phone ringtone was, and she didn’t know mine. What if we were asked about this? It was the kind of detail real married couples would know.
I looked at June. Her eyes were glued to the papers that were scattered on the gray desk. I might have stared because she felt my gaze on her and slightly shifted to look at me. I thought about mouthing it to her, but it’d be too risky, and she wouldn’t understand why I’d say, “‘Immigrant Song’ by Led Zeppelin,” all of a sudden. I just gave her a braving smile instead. Her face distorted in a way that told me that she was making an effort to smile back.
“So, you live in Riviera View, and you live here, in San Francisco, based on the rent agreement you still have,” the man said, bringing his gaze up and looking between us.
“No, we spend time in both places. It’s just that Angelo’s work demands he be here from time to time, and I can’t leave my shops for long periods of time, so …” June said, according to our agreement yesterday.
The man nodded and turned his attention back to the files. A long moment of silence ensued, broken from time to time by his typing on his keyboard.
“How did you two meet?” He gave us a mock warm smile while stacking the papers he had finished going over.
June huffed a chuckle, and we both turned to look at each other, as if deciphering who would reply. We were prepared for this. Her expression was the type my mom would callFaccia di bronzo, a face you could win poker with.
“A mutual friend, my boss, he introduced us,” I said. “Jerry was also in business with June, so that’s how we met.”
The man just looked at me.
The long pause felt like an eternity.
I swallowed. Yesterday, we had decided to stick to the truth. But it sounded blank now, and he seemed to expect more details.
“Jerry thought we could cooperate on organic hemp guitar straps for a niche market. He couldn’t imagine we would fall in love,” I found myself making more things up in the silent office. I memorized the organic hemp bullshit last night, and now I added a chuckle and narrowed my eyes in imitation of the look of a man in love.
“And do you sell them?” the man asked June.
“Sell what?” June angled her head as if she hadn’t heard or understood the question.
“The organic hemp guitar straps,” the man clarified, looking at her with interest.
“Oh!” she said. “That hasn’t happened yet.” She sounded just a little bit breathy.
I kicked myself for making up bullshit like that. I felt as if I poked a sleeping bear, and I didn’t know which one of them was the bear.
June’s gaze steeled, and her eyes were the color of the ocean in winter.
“How long ago was it?” The gray man turned to me.
“About five months ago.” I looked at June. Esther had told us to speak naturally and not as if we had memorized the details, which was why I tried to make it look like a husband who wasn’t exactly sure about the anniversary.
“Yes.” She nodded with a smile.
I was mad at myself and felt sorry for her, which was more than I did for myself. I was concerned for her now more than I was for myself. If we were caught, she would pay the higher price.
I hardly knew her, but I was determined to do everything in my power so she wouldn’t have to.
“When did you first meet her family?” Mr. Gray was addressing me again. He had introduced himself when we had first entered, but his name had flown out of my mind.
“I didn’t. June feels that …”
“They wouldn’t like me married to a younger man who isn’t local. My sisters and my mom … they … It’s complicated. They will meet him eventually. I mean, we want to celebrate Christmas with my family and … yeah. But not for now. I need to prepare them.”
June did it perfectly. Could the clerk guess that we had practiced even the stammering, the imitation of real-life speech, which was never perfectly smooth? I looked at him and hoped he couldn’t.
