An Affair

“I’ll have half a pound prosciutto, extra thin, please.”

“I’ll have half a pound prosciutto, thin, please.” That echo comes from my right.

I glance at the man next to me, he pronounced it proshute, as if he knows what he’s talking about.

His skin is sun-kissed, I think that’s the term. With well-styled, dark brown curly hair, sinfully long lashes framing brown eyes, a roman nose and full lips, he reminds me of a long-ago movie star. Can’t remember who. It’s not important.

Are you Italian? I ask. He shrugs eloquently.  No, he answers, but his grandparents were, he grew up speaking the language. Have I been there? No, I say, but I’d love to go, someday and tell him where and what I’d like to see. He tells me that region is where his grandparents came from. That he still has family there. He highly recommends the trip.

We part ways and each finish our shopping. I relive each word, each nuance in his expression, the sound of his voice, the hint of his accent. I imagine his scent, telling myself to pay closer attention next time, hoping there will be a next time.

The next Saturday, I go back to the same store at the same time and linger among the adult and baby diapers, keeping one eye on the deli counter. When I see him walk to the counter, I sidle up next to him and order whatever he ordered. He turns, a smile on his face, when he hears my order. Hey. the warmth in that one word will feel like honey. Sweet, thick and fragrant. I ask him what he is planning to make with Parma ham this week? He confesses it’ll be just for sandwiches. Cooking for one is not worth the hassle, don’t I agree?

Oh, I do. But can’t help myself and share a lovely recipe I learned from my mother. He thanks me, though I doubt he’ll ever use it.

The third Saturday we approach the deli counter from opposite directions and grin as we meet up. What am I making this week, he asks. Croque Monsieur. I scrunch up my nose. I know, it’s too fattening. And promise to have only one – today.

He laughs and ask if I have time for coffee. On the sidewalk terrace one coffee becomes two and an exchange of phone numbers. He entertains me with stories about his childhood trips to the old country as he calls it, and the mischief he got into with some of the local kids he befriended.

He calls me a few days later. We chat and text and meet again for coffee on Saturday. I’ve been presumptuous, he confesses and tells me that he made reservations at Boca for that evening, am I free to join him?

I make a show of thinking it over, keeping him guessing, but not for long.  Of course, I would love to go out to dinner with him. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about that famed restaurant. Four stars, no less!

Our evening is a success, with much laughter and flirting. We are barely aware of the food. The wine flows freely and time flies. The late spring night is perfect for a lazy stroll, a smile and a kiss on my cheek as he wishes me good night.

Bike rides, baseball games, watching fireworks from a friend’s roof-top patio, late nights over a glass of wine brings us closer. Gradually, almost hesitantly, our relationship grows more intimate. He’s a passionate, skillful lover. Whispering sweet nothings, he always looks for my pleasure and never has to ask, he knows. Looks so pleased, is so proud when I lie spent in his arms. Like an artist would look at his flawless sculpture, his exceptional painting,  his critically acclaimed novel.

It isn’t long before his toothbrush lives next to mine and his shorts tangle with my bras in the washing machine. At least twice a week we cook dinner together. He hesitates to move in all together, confessing to having been hurt before and being a tad gun shy. That he needs a little more time and space for himself, a place to reflect on us and miss me.

Of course, I try to be understanding, knowing that he is right. We shouldn’t rush this. Should allow our love to blossom and ripen before taking that last step.  It doesn’t stop us from sending chatty texts and messages. Our times together are even more precious, intimate and passionate because of it.  My lovely home is our love nest. We even adopt a puppy. The little darling only reluctantly gives up her spot on the bed, when he spends the night.

We talk about a trip to Italy together, and the places I want to see, the places he wants to show me. He urges that we wait till fall, when the weather will be better, and the tourists have gone home. I surprise him and learn to speak Italian. He laughs with delight at my atrocious accent. He tells me t’i amo.

For now, a long weekend in the mountains, hiking and “roughing it” in a cabin with hot and cold running water where we curl up in front of the fire and make sweet, slow love all night, declaring our passion, over and over.

When we can, we attend a concert in the park. Or take a stroll riverside after dinner. We meet each other’s friends and throw dinner parties, dragging the dining table out onto the patio. We become the couple everybody envies with our open affection and inside jokes.

I’m ecstatic, deliriously happy when I learn I’m pregnant. It was that one night of endless love in the mountain cabin, when we ran out of condoms and said it would be okay. One evening of passion, of not being cautious. I can’t wait to share my precious news with him.

He’ll be such a wonderful daddy. He is so playful and nurturing, yet protective. His ambitious side makes him a perfect role model. We’ll look for a larger home. One with plenty of room and a yard for all our children and puppies.

He'll be speechless.

“Ma’am? Your prosciutto? Will there be anything else?”

I look around. He’s gone. He has taken his half pound of ham and left the counter.

“No. No thank you.” I send a weak smile toward the girl.

One week later, I lurk in the toothpaste aisle, keeping one eye on the deli counter.  No eye contact is made when he passes me near the mouthwash. I follow him and hear him ask for half a pound of Parma ham. I sidle up next to him and ask for the same.

I allow a small smile to dance at the corners of my lips. “What are you going to make with the Parma ham?” I ask.

“Huh? What? Oh. My wife is in charge of the kitchen, I just fetch and carry.” He smiles politely and wishes me a good day as he walks toward the check out.