Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
The next day, when I’m in the village, I save Antoinette, Corinne, Mrs. Campana, and Mr. Martin’s numbers on the new phone. They’re so consumed with yesterday’s news that no one asks where or why I finally got a phone. Everyone is talking about how Angelo saved that puppy. There’s even an article in the local newspaper. Someone snapped a cell phone photo of Angelo returning the drenched puppy to its owner. It’s published with the headline, Local patron saves puppy from drowning, on the front page.
At the market on the square where I do the weekly shopping for Corinne, I overhear my husband’s name as I’m filling a basket with oranges. I turn my head in the direction of the voice. Three women sit on a bench under a plane tree with their backs turned to me.
A woman with blond, shoulder-length hair says, “Oh, he can drip all over my floor any time he wants. He’s such a hot dish, not to mention that dangerous vibe he’s got going. I bet he’s a stallion in bed.”
I clench my fingers around the handle of the basket in my hand, feeling like throwing an orange at the back of her head. Preferably a rotten one.
“Pff,” a woman with short black hair says. “That doesn’t change who he is or where he comes from. Under the sexy veneer, he’s still a criminal and nothing but filthy scum.”
My hackles rise. There are layers to him she doesn’t understand, not that I’m defending him.
The third woman, a petite brunette, says, “He’s the kind of trouble we don’t need in this town.”
The blonde crosses her legs. “I’d still like to test-drive him. All that testosterone makes me sweaty.”
“You’re despicable,” the brunette replies with a chuckle.
The woman with the black hair clicks her tongue. “Unfortunately for you, you’re married.”
“So?” the blonde says. “I said test-drive, not buy.”
Urgh. I can’t listen to more.
Turning away from the conversation, I pay for the oranges and hurry to the cheese vendor on the opposite side of the square. I’m no longer in earshot of the women’s conversation, but their words refuse to let me go. It’s the truth, yet I hate both their interest and their judgment. The fact that I couldn’t confront them for fear of exposing myself only makes me feel worse.
For the rest of the day, I keep busy by cleaning the house from top to bottom. A few times, I almost give in and send a text message from Angelo’s phone to ask how the kids are doing, but my pride prevents me. Sooner or later, my husband will visit to collect his due.
A strange kind of anxiety takes hold of me as I wait for Angelo to arrive, but he only pulls up in front of the house two evenings later. I part the blinds in front of the window in the lounge and peer through the glass. The path lights illuminate the garden. He gets out of the car, wearing a dark bespoke suit and a white shirt like when he dived into the river. The clothes fit him well. The tailored cut makes him look both powerful and at ease in his own skin. When he makes his way down the path with long, easy strides, I drop the blinds and undress. By the time his key is scraping in the lock, I’m naked and kneeling with my legs spread.
He pushes the door open and pauses as his gaze lands on me. For the two seconds he stands motionless, cold air enters from outside. Goosebumps run over my skin, and my nipples contract. An internal battle wages inside me. I want to remain detached, but after the puppy incident, it’s difficult.
I admire what he did. If not for him, that poor puppy would’ve drowned. If I’m honest, I’ll admit it’s more than admiration that threatens to stir up the feelings I suppress. It’s also jealousy. It’s remembering how that woman looked at him when he returned her puppy. More than anything, it’s the satisfaction at how he rejected her. It’s the female in me who wants my husband to be faithful. Our marriage is in no way normal. I have no right to crave the traditional values that comes with holy matrimony. The bond of our marriage is nothing but a weapon in Angelo’s hands. It’s just another tool he can use to tie me to him. Then why do I want him to honor his vow? Because I’m every bit as possessive as he is. It’s not easy to admit. Forcing nothingness into my heart becomes near impossible when I’m acknowledging these feelings.
I lower my head before he sees the turmoil he creates inside me. The click of the door announces he’s closed it. The cold that disappears confirms it. His steps fall with a slow beat on the floor. His polished dress shoes enter my line of vision. He stops between my legs. Too close. He brushes a hand over my head and grips my ponytail. With a gentle tug, he lifts my face. My eyes are on the level of his crotch. The bulge in his pants tells me he wants me, but when he opens his mouth, his confused tone says otherwise.