Tonight was Angelo’s poker night with the boys from Washington Street, so tonight was Cristina’s golden chance. She sent the boys across the street to Ma and Pop, but on a light dress and headed over to Rittenhouse Square. Agnes said they’d be dining at the top of the Warwick tonight and would have a stroll in Rittenhouse Square after dinner.
A lovely evening, but Cristina didn’t give a whit’s whit about the spring weather. She walked the mile to the square in nothing flat. If she sat on a bench and they walked by, they’d see her, and she didn’t want to be seen. So she just walked around the square on the perimeter. How many times before she saw them walk over from Locust Street, two, three, or four? But finally, there they were – holding hands.
Cristina felt her heart thump. Agnes wore a white and navy blue frock. Her hair flowed freely down her back – she’d always been jealous of that straight red hair. Why’d Cristina have to get her Sicilian mother’s unruly black hair? The two of them were laughing, carrying on, shoulder to shoulder. Agnes stood only a few inches shorter than he – but Cristina barely came up to his shoulder. Why couldn’t she have Agnes’s height?
Norman looked so handsome in his blue suit. He wore clothes well on that muscular frame he exercised every day. But he also wore no clothes well. How well she remembered that month in Florence back in ’29. She didn’t count everything like Agnes did, so she didn’t remember how many times they made love – but she remembered the intensity of his muscles, the bristly hairs on his stomach rubbing against her abdomen.
Seven years had passed quickly. She still didn’t know how they broke up, how they got back to America and worked in the same architecture firm, how she and Agnes became best friends, how Agnes fell in love with him. Norman belonged to Cristina. She found him first.
After a while Agnes got up and walked across the park to Peterson’s. It was time for Cristina to make her move. No one was looking.
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