Behind the counter, Cristina chopped salami for Mrs. Monteverdi. Why’d she promise Pop she’d fill in for Dorothy when she went on her Atlantic City honeymoon? The marriage wouldn’t last, Cristina knew – she’d married a yutz named Stanley Zbornak who didn’t know his left foot from the right. But Cristina had sexy, sweaty Angelo who knew how to get the eyes rolling in the back of her head.
Donnie and Ronnie were playing a game of Cowboys and Indians at Ma’s this afternoon. Those boys got away with murder when Ma babysat them – if only Ma could discipline them like Angelo’s mother. A few whacks here and there, and they knew what was good for them. Ma was too busy with making marinara and –
“Good morning, Cristina.”
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Norman Balmoral. They hadn’t seen each other since just before he and Agnes went on their honeymoon back in the summer of ’32. What was that, six, seven years? He looked like he was thriving, a crisp haircut and even stubble on his chin. How she remembered the feel of his stubble on her thighs …
Cristina frowned. "Norman Balmoral, I’m not so sure it’s a good morning for either of us. You be gone before I call Pop to throw you out.”
He only laughed. Sometimes he was impossible. No, he was always impossible.
No comments:
Post a Comment