by Rita Siligato
Redenta was never beautiful. When she was young, she had a certain look. Shortish, but with nice legs enhanced by high heels. She had light brown hair and eyes, and something Egyptian in the face. She always wore bold colors. She loved to mix and match a pink shirt with an orange skirt, or a purple floral jacket with a checkered yellow jumper.
In the morning, when Redenta was already dressed for work, her mother would always shout some jaded old saying: “Red and pink makes you blink!”
“Maybe they make YOU blink, mother! I like a splash of color! And my blouse is pale pink, I know, but the skirt is a burnt orange. See?”
“And flowers and checkers… they fight against each other!”
Coffee cup in hand, standing by the cupboard, Redenta was ready for an answer: “I don’t understand why you are shouting, since we are in the same room. And I never saw a flower fighting! I’m leaving for work, mother. See you tonight.”
She run down the stairs, leaving the door open for her mother to lean on the balcony, yelling: “Show me some respect! And don’t go around with that boy, after work. There’s minestrone for dinner.”
She was always running. She was always almost late for work. She would have loved to sleep till lunch. Sometimes on Saturdays – they worked only half a day on Saturday – she had a bite to eat and then she would curl up in bed, reading and sleeping, till Monday morning.
But than night, after work, she knew Dario would be waiting for her at their corner.
They lived only three doors from each other, but knowing that her mother does not like him, they used to meet downtown, near the vegetable warehouse where she worked as a junior clerk.
Seven o’clock: her working day was over. And it was a Friday! Only one day more – half a working day more – and she would have a full day and a half to herself, reading and dreaming with her eyes open – or closed – and with a solid door between her and her mother’s voice.
Leaving the desk, she straightened her blouse at the waist and grabbed the keys of the heavy roller shutter from the metal box by the door. She had one more thing to do, she thought, reaching for the silk pouch hidden in her pocket and then fumbling with her ears. Standing up and turning off the lights, she was surprised seeing Dario just outside the warehouse.
“I’m a little bit early. I hope you don’t mind if I help you with the shutter,” said Dario.
His large dark eyes always startled her. And his hair, curly and almost black, over his forehead.
He looked at her: “Nice blouse. Give me the keys.”
Expertly, he turned the keys in the upper lock and grasped the handle, pushing the shutter down in one athletic move.
“May I treat you to a glass of water before dinner, girl? It’s all I can offer you now.”
She loved the way he was looking at her. Confident, simple – there was no judgement in those eyes.
“I don’t mind about your glass of water. Let’s walk a bit together, but we will go home taking two different paths. I am not keen on shouting tonight.”
They turned right and left: there was no one around. For her twenty-first birthday, a few weeks before, in April, he gave her the wonderful custom jewelry earrings studded with red rhinestones she was wearing now, dangling from her ears like grapes. He was seventeen and he worked at a factory: he must have saved for months for the gift. She would have to lean a little toward him to kiss him. He was slightly shorter than her, but he was still growing: they kissed.
“Redenta, you are always late. I told you we would have minestrone for dinner, with rice. You will have a very mushy minestrone, tonight.”
“I know I am late. At the last moment Mr. Pirzio asked me to check some invoices. And I don’t care for overcooked rice, mother.”
She ate half a plate of minestrone, almost solid, now, and lukewarm, savoring the idea of bed and book to come.
“And look at your earrings! You dress like a gipsy! Red earrings over a pink blouse and an orange skirt!”
She forgot to take them off. She knew they would have started a tiff.
“Red and pink makes you blink, mother?”
Redenta is waiting outside Dario’s home, at eleven o’clock in the morning. She is still wearing the earrings he gave her for her twenty-first birthday. And today she is sporting her new outfit: a bright pink dress under a red jacket. Through the glass of the front door she sees Dario coming down the stairs with his walking stick. He is a bit shorter than her now, again. He has shrunken with age, but his hair is still dark and curly.
“May I treat you to a glass of water before lunch, girl?”
