He held it in the palm of his hand. She liked the look of its spongy resilience, a life of its own with a mind of its own. She'd always liked it, really, ever since they'd first started dating in Catholic school -- same way on the day when Pop had caught the two of them in her bedroom. Why'd she been so foolish as to invite Angelo home with her? His parents never opened the door to his bedroom and she'd always known her folks were snoopy. Like back in the old country when Aunt Justina got in a nasty fix and had to marry Sylvio Berducci.
Looking at it there in Angelo's hand, it'd always been her major weakness -- she'd never been able to resist it, even when Angelo did something to make her mad like come to her parents' house for Sunday dinner in a sweaty t-shirt. Even the worst Philadelphia heat spell in twenty years didn't justify such rude behavior. He could've at least donned a white shirt and a tie, just like any gentleman always did. You'd think he was back in the vineyards of Toscana his parents had left back in 1890! And then he spat in public, right there on the sidewalk on Christian Street. Such manners! But oh, how she melted ... especially when he held it in his hand.
She always bossed him around in these circumstances. Seeing it emboldened, empowered her. She would see it, every time, and assert her basic needs. She'd tell me what to do with it, where to put it. She'd tell him when she'd finished with it, when he could wash it, when he could put it away. She knew Angelo could control the two of them with it, but she also knew he enjoyed meeting her demands. Part of the game they'd played these seven years since they'd gotten married ... because no matter what she thought of Angelo's bad manners, his bad education, he'd still hold it up for her whenever she demanded it. If he needed to hold it up ... most of the time, it stood up all by itself.
No comments:
Post a Comment