Silence followed this speech.
Silence except for my heart pounding even harder than it had when I’d entered the shop.
This man, whoever he was, was coming on to June.
I peeked through the shelves and saw them standing near a stack of boxes, the top one opened and half-filled with glass jars. June was with her back to me, still in the shop’s sage apron. Her hair was tied up, like it usually was at the end of the day, the delicate strands caressing her neck and having the same mesmerizing effect on me. She stood so upright, so uptight, that I hoped she’d snap at him and tell him to go fuck himself.
She didn’t.
“I was thinking, maybe we could … I’m getting separated, have one daughter. You met her. Heard you’re single.” The man, who was as nondescript as they came, tilted his head. “Maybe we can go out.” He chuckled nervously and added, “Or in.”
This figlio di puttana! That’s my fucking wife!
Blood pumped in my ears so hard that I barely heard anything anymore, but I wanted to hear her turning him down. Ineededher to turn him down.
“I’m … um …” June faltered.
“Yes?” He chuckled again. Then he put his hand on her shoulder and slid it down her arm.
It had never happened to me—I saw red. He was touching her, and she wasn’t his to touch. She was mine!
I had never been a possessive man. I wasn’t even the jealous type. But now, jealousy and possessiveness tore through my veins and surged out, taking over me.
Before I had a chance to take more than a step, the man sealed his fate in this encounter.
“You used to have a crush on me. We could fulfill that Valentine’s Day wish of yours from high school. Remember? What do you say?”
“I don’t think—” June began.
“She says no and fuck you!” I lunged out of the aisle and, with the back of my hand, slapped his palm away from June’s arm and came between them.
“Angelo!”
I felt her eyes on me, but my gaze was focused on the dirtbag who had humiliated her years ago and now dared to come near her and touch her.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, sending his hands toward me.
“I’m her husband; that’s who I am! And that’s my wife you’re touching!” I shoved him, and he stumbled, knocking down the open box. A few jars smashed, their powdery contents spilling and mixing with the mess of broken glass.
“Angelo, no!”
I was too engrossed in the son of a bitch to stop now.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I pulled him by his shirt’s lapels and dragged him toward the entrance. “Get out!” I pushed him outside and closed the door behind him. Through the glass, I could see him wobbling a few steps before he managed to stop the fall. Then he rearranged his shirt, his head bouncing from side to side as he made sure no one on the street had noticed him being thrown out, and rushed toward a black Mercedes.
I locked the door, flipped the open sign to “Closed,” and went back to June.
She was crouched, scooping up the broken glass and powder, looking around her in desperation.
“I’ll help you.” I hurried to squat next to her, picking up the jars that hadn’t broke and putting them back in the box.
She rose to her feet, holding a full dustpan. “Go home, Angelo, please, whichever it is. And if it’s mine, then fine; I’ll see you when I get there. But please, go now.”
“He was harassing you! And he’s the one who—”
“He was trying to, but I can handle him. You didn’t have to barge in like that, and you shouldn’t have told him …” She put the dustpan in the half-empty box and covered her face with her hands. “This was the last thing I needed,” she mumbled into her palms. She uncovered her face and looked at me. “What if he tells people?”
“Who is he going to tell? He wouldn’t want people knowing what happened here.”
