An Italian Wife by Ann Hood

marrying Anna. Kissing her until he grew too old to do it any longer.
    â€œYou want to marry me?” she said, hugging herself.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre we engaged then?” she asked him. She was fifteen years old and, standing there like that in the dying light, she looked like an absolute child.
    â€œYes,” Carmine said again, marveling at how simple this all was.
    â€œAn engagement is a promise,” she said.
    Carmine considered her words. “Of course.”
    â€œSo you are promising to come back and marry me?”
    He laughed. All he wanted was to kiss her some more. The sky behind her was darkening. Carmine liked dusk, the inky swirls of blue and black that seemed to gobble the sky.
    â€œThis is my favorite time of day,” he said softly. Usually he was still in the mill at dusk and missed it. Instead, he walked out the big double doors into night.
    They had walked far enough that the mill was not in sight. The river made a gentle bend, and they had walked along that elbow of soft grass to this spot. Everything was in bloom. White blossoms covered trees. Buttercups and black-eyed Susans dotted the grass. The air smelled of the river and fresh grass and flowers.
    â€œWhat’s your favorite time of day?” Carmine whispered. He realized he knew nothing about this girl.
    â€œWhen the sun comes up,” she said. “I like lying in bed and having the sun come through the window and warm my skin.”
    Carmine nodded. He could see her in a bed, with white sheets and a white coverlet, her dark hair spilling everywhere, and warm sunlight touching her.
    â€œI want to make sure you come back,” Anna said.
    â€œBut I promised,” he told her, impatient.
    Anna slowly sat on the grass and patted beside her. It was damp from being so close to the river, but he sat anyway.
    â€œIf I give myself to you and you don’t come back, no one else will have me,” she said. “I’ll be a puttana .”
    He tried to think of what to say, but Anna was slowly unbuttoning her dress. It was a navy-blue cotton dress with two big pockets, long and shapeless, not a very pretty dress. She wore it often. Carmine watched as she stood and stepped from it. Beneath it she wore white bloomers and a cotton shirt like children wore and long white stockings that came just above her knee. She took those off first, then the bloomers. While she rolled the stockings together and folded the bloomers, Carmine tried not to stare at the thick patch of hair she had. Somewhere in there was what Angelo called the Garden of Eden. Angelo had not yet been there, but he told Carmine that Carla let him reach under her skirt, into her bloomers, and stick his fingers inside. Carmine wondered if this was what he should do now, pull her down beside him and stick his fingers beneath all that hair.
    But now she was lifting off the shirt, pulling it over her head, and folding it neatly too. She had no breasts really. Her chest was almost completely flat, with just two bumps, and hard brown nipples poking out at him. He felt like he was dreaming. The moonlight, this offering, his ringing ears, made Carmine dizzy.
    â€œNow you,” she said.
    Carmine nodded, then stood and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it onto the grass. When he pulled off his T-shirt, Anna put her hand to her mouth in something like disgust.
    â€œYou have so much hair,” she said. She studied him like she was a scientist instead of his lover. “I had no idea,” she said. Then she looked up at him. “Are all men this way?”
    â€œI think so,” he said, suddenly embarrassed by the curly hair that blanketed his chest and stomach and shoulders. What would she say when she saw the rest of him?
    She nodded slowly as if considering this.
    Carmine took off his shoes and socks, then his pants, not pausing as she had to fold and place them carefully. He was only thinking of what he was about to have. The Garden of Eden.