Don't You See

“Did you forget something?” he asks as I stop in front of him.

“Buy me dinner?” I ask, looking up at him. He’s so much taller than I am. He looks like a protector. My protector.

“You want me to feed you?” he asks, more like a growl than actual words.

“Yeah. I figured we could talk some more. All I know about you should scare me, but you don’t.” Honesty is my strong suit, so it makes sense that I just be forthright with him.

“You’re a brave girl,” he tells me, grinning.

“Well, I don’t know about that, but I’m hungry and I want to know who I am about to marry.”

“We’ve got three months,” he reminds me.

“Yeah, but you’ll be doing God knows what back in New York while I am stuck here.”

“And you’re worried about what I’ll be doing?”

“I am. Aren’t you worried about what I’ll be doing? Do you have a girlfriend at home?” I ask and I immediately hate myself for it. It shouldn’t matter if he has one, but it does. I close my eyes and wait for the answer. Of course, he does. Men like him always do. My dad may love my mama, but I know for a fact he has a mistress and several girlfriends. I know I don’t want a husband who cheats just because that’s what men in his profession do. I couldn’t handle it. I know it’s crazy to wish that my husband actually loves me and only me, but I want to be selfish about it. I deserve that, every woman does.

“I don’t. I’m not my father. I’d never treat my wife with such a lack of respect. I am a one-woman man.

“That makes me very happy, Zio,” I say, trying the nickname on for size.

“No one has ever called me anything other than Fabrizio. I like it. I saw a restaurant down the street. Shall we?” he asks, holding his arm out to me.

“Of course.”

We walk down the street and go into the hole in the wall restaurant. It’s early, so only old people occupy the tables. We are seated quickly, and wine is brought around before menus. The legal drinking age is sixteen here, but I hate the taste of wine, so I don’t drink any. Fabrizio pours himself a glass but doesn’t drink it.

“How are you liking your classes?” he asks, fiddling with a cloth napkin on the table.

“I hate them. I have no idea when I’ll ever use horticulture in my daily life. They don’t teach math or homemaking skills. It’s the weirdest school I’ve ever been to.”

“And you are particularly interested in math?”

“No,” I tell him.

“Homemaking then?”

“Yes and no.”

“Care to explain?”

“I don’t want to be taught how to keep a home, but I do want to keep a home if that makes sense,” I say.

“Perfect sense. I’d say you’ll get your chance in about a month.”

“About that?”

“What about it? I thought we decided it was happening.”

“I don’t remember you asking me to marry you,” I say sassily.

“Did you need me to ask you?”

“It’d be nice,” I say taking the menu the waitress hands me.

“Bonjour. Vous avez chosi?” she asks.

“Oui, pour moi juste une salade s’il vous plaît. What do you want?” I ask Fabrizio.

“Medium rare steak and a baked potato,” he says.

“Il aura un steak, À point et une pomme de terre au four.”

“Et comme boissons?”

“Je voudrais de l’eau,” I say asking for some water. He seems just fine with his bottle of red wine.

“Ce sera tout?” she asks,

“Oui. Merci,” I say and she walks away.

“What?” I ask when he just stares at me.

“You are very beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Just my mom,” I say honestly.

“That’s a shame,” he says, still fidgeting with the napkin. I’d like to think that he’s messing with that napkin because he’s keeping himself from touching me. “Someone should be telling you every minute of every day.”

“Ideally that someone would be you, right?”

“Only me.”

Our food comes and we eat and talk about the future. Then the time comes when I have to go back to school and I find that I don’t want to. He walks me back to the gates of the school. There, he places a large diamond ring on my finger.

“What’s this?” I ask, knowing full well what it is.

“You’ll wear this ring so that every motherfucker in France, fuck, the whole goddamn world knows you’re my girl. It doesn’t come off this finger until your wedding band is about to go in place. Do you understand me, Fawn?”

“Yes,” I say nodding. “Are you really not going to ask me?”

“Why ask when it’s already been decided?” He asks, shrugging. The man has a point and I hate that.

“Fine,” I pout, but when he picks up my hand and kisses it, right by the ring, I almost die.