Page 81 of The Strength Of A Woman

It’s just a guess, but I’m sure I’m right.

Eventually, he pays, and we leave.

Later, we walk into several shops.

A showroom in an old house where we admire bronze jewelry and sculptures.

A store where we find shelves lined with natural soap, candles, and body products, and I pick my favorites, the ones that smell like jasmine and pomegranate.

He picks a few colorful scarves for me, in a mix of coral and turquoise tones, and we both settle on hand-painted glass plates.

An hour later, we discover a world of ceramics that perfectly capture the bright sun, the sparkling sea, and everything that nature has to offer.

If things can heal a broken heart, this is the place to be.

Toward the end of the afternoon, we stroll into a bookstore, where we leaf through the pages of rare books and collectible magazines. We also check a collection of vinyl and vintage postcards.

We end our stroll at a chocolate shop.

How else?

Here, I have a unique experience tasting different flavors of chocolate and can’t help but joke that I won’t be able to eat anything else for a week. And I’ve probably picked the right dress from this trip.

Smiling, he gives me a side-eyed glance.

“You truly did,” he says, commenting on my dress, and I have a feeling that he would like nothing better than to feel me up through the soft fabric, get a feel of my body, touch my breasts, and then lower his hands below my waist.

I smile at that thought as we head back to our car.

Most of the things we bought are already with his men.

“I know it’s early, but where would you like to have dinner?” he asks in the careful tone of a man who has been entrusted with someone precious and wants to make them happy.

The realization that it was probably the first time someone had asked me what I wanted to do, rather than simply ordering me what to do, or telling me what I was expected to do or needed to do, gives me pause.

For the first time, someone wants my opinion on things related to me instead of forcing me to do them against my will and telling me to just get over myself––in case I protested––and simply get used to it.

The thought that I’ve lived most of my life entrapped makes me drown in grief and regret.

“Is everything all right?” he asks, noticing the change on my face.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” I say, my voice heavy with resentment.

We’re just about to climb into our ride when he gives me a second look, makes note of my dull eyes, and instructs one of his men to take the things we bought home before he makes new plans for the evening.

We’ll be strolling down the streets of Syracuse for a little longer before I make up my mind about what I want to do tonight.

My hand slides to his arm.

“Don’t change everything because of me,” I say, still in a bad mood, still processing the new take on my life.

He studies my face before he speaks.

“What about we do this? We stay in town for as long as you’d like, and then we head home and have dinner.”

I look at him, grateful that he has offered me such an elegant way out.

“We can order food from a nice restaurant in town and take our time enjoying ourselves on the terrace without the crowd’s clamor in the background.”