by Megan Rivers
“And here I was thinking I'd see you trying a ham sandwich on Christmas,” he said.
“Whoa, let's not get too crazy,” I joked. The cab stopped at a red light and apparently so did our conversation. “So,” (There's that dang word again!) “I have to ask: why do you work at a deli?”
He looked at me like he didn't understand the question. “Am I that bad at it? Should I quit my day job?”
“No! I just—I mean, it's not a job most people dream about.” Oh god, was I coming off as a snob? “Not that it's a bad job,” I stumbled over my words. Great, Christie, dig yourself a deeper hole.
A smile grew across Antony's face and he touched my arm with his gloved hand. “Relax, Christie. I'm only making fun. I love my job—I co-own The Meat Up with my uncle Joe—you know him: glasses, old, nice to you, but constantly gives me a hard time? He brought me to America from Italy when I was twelve; my parents are still there with my brothers and sisters.” I let his words sink in, understanding him better. “What about you? Do you love what you do?”
A smile leapt to my lips. “Every day.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “What do you do?”
“I'm a junior curator in the Roman Art department at the MET.” I loved saying that.
He let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Here I thought you were another office drone in the Finance District. What made you do that?”
“It's a long story, but I just love art. I love the way people can convey thoughts and feelings without words and how it translates over time and cultures. I love how it teaches us about our past and about ourselves at the same time. Art can do anything and everything.
“You can take a piece of art and have four different people look at it with different perspectives and they're all right because art is for ourselves—to reflect our desires, our thoughts, our wishes, what we can imagine—sorry,” I suddenly realized I was getting lost in my my own head, “I'm rambling.” I felt my face get warm.
“Hey, I get it.” He spoke with his hands. “More people should do what they love—it'd be a happier world if they did.”
The cab pulled up to a curb near the park and we got out to start our adventure. I'd like to say that we had a magical time and kissed on the ice and that our relationship blossomed from there, but that pesky little thing called life gets in the way.
We were on our first lap around the giant ice rink and I had fallen twice already. A group of kids broke away from their group and raced across the ice. Seeing a gang of hooligans (okay, three nine-year olds) rush towards me, I turned and braced for their impact—which never came as they broke left—but the lack of impact faulted my balance and I fell again, this time twisting my ankle. Just my luck.
Thankfully, Antony didn't hold it against me. While I was humiliated and mortified, he always found humor. As he helped me hobble up the steps to my apartment, he joked, “You know, there are less painful ways to get me to come up to your apartment.” I couldn't help but let a laugh escape my lips as I used his shoulder for support.
Antony plopped me on the couch and got a bag of peas (since when did I have frozen peas?) from the freezer. “Peas, really?” I asked, moving my leg and wincing in pain.
“Put your foot up,” he said, putting two throw pillows on the coffee table. “Keep it up. The peas will help the swelling.”
I obeyed him and the frozen vegetables felt good. “You know,” I mused, “for a guy who didn't fall his first time skating, you sure know a lot about sprained ankles.”
He stopped fussing with my foot and said, “For a girl who sprains her ankle while being idle, you don't know enough.”
“Touché,” I said and let my head fall backwards.
Antony crouched on the ground, inspecting my leg. “One thing I do remember from basic first aid is R.I.C.E.”
Lifting my head I asked, “Peas, now rice? Are we making a stir fry?”
He shot me an incredulous look. “Rest, ice, compress, elevate.” He stood up. “Do you have asprin or bandages?”
I eyed him as if to say, “What do you think?”
A smile flirted with the corner of his mouth, but instead he declared, “I'm going to the corner store—don't move! I mean it!” He pointed his finger and tried to look stern.
Before I could argue the point, he was out the door.
V.
Confident Intrusion
“Like I'm Gonna Lose You” – Meghan Trainor
The next day I hobbled to work and paid for it. When I got home and R.I.C.E.'ed, I nearly didn't answer the door because after eight asprins (and two shots of whiskey), I finally got my ankle to stop throbbing. Nevertheless, I hopped to the door.
“Antony!” I was shocked and thought I'd never see him again. Despite my best efforts, my face was aglow (I blame the whiskey).
“I brought food—boy, you look horrible,” he said, inviting himself inside. I could only imagine how frizzy my hair had gotten between my hobbling and writhing—not to mention how red and watery my eyes were from squeezing them shut and rubbing the tears away.
“I know,” I admitted. “I shouldn't have gone to work.” I plopped down on the couch and gingerly laid my ankle back on the tower of pillows.
Antony started unpacking the brown bag he brought with him. The smell made my mouth water. He shook his head and tisked at me. “Really, Christie, do you need someone to baby-sit you so you relax?”
“Nah, that's what the whiskey is for.” I said nudging the bottle with my good foot.
He shook his head and handed me some napkins. “I am personally going to make sure you stay off that ankle for the next forty-eight hours.” I opened my mouth to object, but he pressed forward. “I will personally guarantee a hobble-free Monday. Besides, the meatball sub is a standard prescription for this ailment, and how can you turn that down?”
“Are you bribing me with food?” I asked and took a massive bite from the sandwich he set in front of me. “Because it's working,” I said with a mouth full of meatball.
And that's how our relationship blossomed. He stayed with me until the wee hours of the morning, changing out ice packs every half hour or so and introducing me to a whole season of Lost (which I continued to stream the entire weekend!).
Late Saturday afternoon, I was on my laptop doing some research for work when he knocked and then let himself in. Before he said anything, he gave me a look that forced confessions. “I swear I only got up to use the bathroom and for water. I keep my laptop under the couch!” I know the look came from a humorous place, but those Italian eyes can pierce through any lie.
He smiled—and that smile never got old. His whole face lifted and transformed. The skin around his eyes added exuberance and made his eyes brighter. It made him look like the happiest man on earth. “I guess that's okay.” He walked in and took off his coat. He grabbed the plastic shopping bag he brought with him. “I brought food,” he said, lifting a brown paper bag and placing it on the coffee table; now my eyes lit up. “And entertainment.” He took Scrabble and Battleship out of the shopping bag as well.
“I've actually never played Battleship,” I admitted, greedily emptying the paper bag.
Antony knelt down in front of the coffee table and immediately began clearing off a place to set up the game. “You're kidding! You're in for a treat!” For the next several hours he murdered me in game after game of Battleship and I schooled him in Scrabble.
Then, Sunday afternoon, he walked in and caught me hobbling from the bathroom to the living room and I froze like a deer in headlights as he pierced me with his gaze. I threw my hands up and said, “You cannot deny me basic hygiene!” My hair was dripping and I was in yoga pants and a NYU sweatshirt. I had needed a shower.
He smiled and nodded, accepting my excuse. “Okay, but put that foot up!”
Since my foot had stopped throbbing I would have stopped resting it so much if it wasn't for Antony's vigilance. I waved an acknowledgement at his request as he put a few grocery bags on the small kitchen ta
ble. “You know you don't have to—” I began giving my speech about him not having to check on me each day, but was cut off.
“—I know, I know!” he waved his hand at me as he unloaded produce from the bags. “But I'm Italian: I'm intrusive.” He winked at me and finished emptying his bags. He began to crinkle the shopping bags into a small ball. “Tonight I am commemorating your last day of rest with an authentic Italian dinner.”
I clapped. “What can I do?” I said, starting to get up.
He raised his finger to stop me. “Just sit. Italians only beyond this point,” he said pointing to the archway that separated the kitchen from the main room.
Monday morning came and the sun streamed in from the only window in the apartment. I half slept-walked into the bathroom when I suddenly realized I was hobble-free, as promised; even the bruising had faded. I had started my morning off on the right foot, so to say, giving me an extra hop in each ballet-flat wearing step (I wasn't going to chance it in heels!).
At the end of my work day I still felt great. I made my way to The Meat Up to thank Antony for all he had done.
Luckily, it was the end of the dinner rush when I walked in. Plenty of people were filling chairs and eating over tables, there were even a few people in line to order cold cuts and Joe was working his magic on the meat slicer to fulfill each one. Antony was behind the glass partition cleaning up the prep counter and restocking the sandwich fix-ins. He looked up and I waved from the door and his face lit up.
Something inside me felt different; I think they call it confidence. I walked up to the counter. “I see you're moving better. What did I tell you?” He wiped the counter as he talked. “It's the Italian food—cures everything.”
“My ankle feels amazing! Thank you so much for all your help,” I started.
“It's nothing. So what'll it be today, Meatball Girl?”
I shrugged as if to dismiss the question; I had bigger fish to fry. “Surprise me.”
“Whoa-oh-oh!” Antony exaggerated then chose a loaf of ciabatta bread from the bread cart.
“Actually, I wanted to ask you out to dinner, or to a movie, or something that doesn't take much coordination—because we all know I can hurt myself just by standing there doing nothing—to thank you for all you've done. You've been more than amazing this weekend and you can say no, but I want to pay you back. I want you to know I appreciated all of it.” It came out in one breath, probably resembling a ramble.
Antony looked up from cutting the loaf, the bread knife still in his hand, momentarily frozen. Two incredibly long seconds passed before Joe said, “Oye, it's about time,” from the counter beside Antony, “that one of you made a move.”
I smiled at Joe, though, admittedly, feeling less confident with every second that passed without a response from Antony. Finally, he grinned. “You don't have to—”
Ah, it was my turn to cut him off. “—I know I don't have to, but I've been around an Italian too long and I'm becoming intrusive.”
His grin turned into a smile that lit up my entire world. “Okay, yeah, sure. Let's do this.”
After our first date to the Central Park Zoo, we had a second date, and a third date, and a forth until they weren't dates anymore, but just life. We came together naturally; it was never a challenge or an inconvenience. He fit into my life and I fit into his. We would spend time at his apartment in New Jersey, and we would spend time at mine in Brooklyn. Some days he would wait for me on the steps outside the MET with a meatball sandwich and there were days where I sat on my laptop in a corner of The Meat Up to share moments together in between our work.
We just fit together without having to plan for it, and that's how our engagement came to be four months later. We were walking around Central Park after work and taking advantage of the warm spell we had had in the weather. We still had our winter coats on, but the air didn't freeze every un-covered pore of our bodies.
Munching on hot dogs, we sat on the wooden benches near Turtle Pond. ”So I heard from Meadow, she texted me earlier,” I said between bites.
“Oh?” he asked, his free arm resting behind me, along the top of the bench, as he took a sip of my soda.
“She bought her plane tickets. She'll be here next weekend for her birthday. Apparently she wants to celebrate her twenty-eighth birthday at Coney Island.” I tried not to roll my eyes.
“Oh, I get to meet the illustrious sister. Is she still dating that guy?”
“Who? Ted?” Ted was a business suit from the music company she worked for and they had been dating almost as long as she lived there.
“Yeah, Ted.”
“No.” I turned my whole body, excited to tell him the gossip. “After she flew back to L.A. from our Christmas in Chicago, Ted set up this fancy-shmancy dinner date at some swanky restaurant and proposed. But she said no because all she could picture were these fancy planned out dates; they had never just hung out in their pajamas or went to the zoo—which is just so unlike Meadow. So they broke up.”
Antony lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm.”
I looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean, 'hmm?'”
“Just hmm. They had been dating for four years and never just hung out? Hmm.”
I was getting a little defensive. “What? Do you think she was wrong?”
Antony saw my eyes harden slightly and jumped up to beat away my thoughts. “No! Oh, tesoro,” that was his Italian term of endearment for me. It meant something like darling. “It's just that their relationship was the opposite of ours.”
My eyebrows lifted as I thought about it. “Hmm,” was all I said as I sat back against the bench.
“See?” He said, agreeing with the sound.
“It's just that I wonder if Meadow would have said yes if they would have hung out more—that she got to be herself more in the relationship.... or if he just wasn't the one for her.” It took everything in me not to take out my phone and call her with this revelation: it wasn't just their relationship, it was him.
Antony relaxed and finished his hot dog. “I would have. I love what we have.”
I genuinely smiled at him. “I do too. Sometimes I feel like we're already married.”
His face lit up with his smile. “Ti voglio un mondo di bene.”
“You know I never understand you when you do that.” When Antony was trying to communicate a big or new feeling, it always came out in Italian. The first time he said he loved me—ti amo—I was really confused.
He put his arm around me and I nestled in, loving the moment. “You are my world,” was all he said.
“Hmm,” I pondered.
“Hmm?” He played along, nudging me.
I nodded, “Hmm.” After a few moments the words spilled out of my mouth like the BP Oil Spill, “I want to marry you one day.” Unlike the BP Corporation, I did not regret this spill, yet it covered everything in a slippery question.
“Anch'io,” he said. I waited for a translation to follow. “How about October?”
I lifted my head to face him, a smile about to erupt. “What? Really?”
“I'm flexible on the month, as long as you are there.”
And that was how we became engaged. And it was natural and comfortable, just like our relationship. A lot of people criticize casual engagements and glorify the viral-video proposals, but I wouldn't have changed it, not any moment of it.
Only three weeks later the MET was having a fundraiser. It was a black tie benefit for VIPs to make donations and see special exhibits. As a junior curator I had to attend, but Antony was accompanying me. We looked at it as the first time we were going out in public as fiances.
Soon after I got to work that day, I realized I left my cell phone in the charger beside the bed. It made my busy day a lot more difficult. I rushed home with less than half an hour to get ready. Antony was in the shower and I wasted no time slipping into a black dress and throwing my wind-blown hair into a French twist so the frizz would stay put.
With a few moments to spare I p
icked up my cell to find three voicemails and ten text messages from Meadow since last night. They read as follows:
3/26/11 4:35am Call me ASAP! ULL never believe what happened!!!!!
3/26/11 6:30am I no yer up. Call me. NOW.
3/26/11 6:45am Ugh! Stie! I could have an emergency here!
3/26/11 7:02am OK u saw my bluff. I'm fine. SRSLY. CALL ME.
3/26/11 7:38am Y aren't U pickin up? I no yer on yer way 2 work...
3/26/11 8:49am GAH! U better B in a ditch somewhere
3/26/11 11:00am J/K. U better not B in a ditch. Call me on yer lunch break
3/26/11 12:11pm SRSLY? Stie. Not cool.
3/26/11 12:54pm Stie? Stie? Stie? Stie? Stie? Stie? Stie? Stie? Stie?
3/26/11 5:01pm Call me Call me call me call me call me call me call me
3/26/11 5:30pm SRSLY Stie where R U?
I cleared the screen, ready to call her right back when I heard Antony's voice, “Don't you look classy?”
Antony was not in his regular white t-shirt and apron. He wore a cunning black tuxedo and a guy in a tuxedo just makes my knees weak. “And don't you look dashing,” I said, putting my arms around his neck for a kiss.
He offered me his elbow. “Ready to get this show on the road?”
“Look out world,” I said, smiling, and grabbed the crook of his arm as we wandered out of the apartment.
When we arrived at the MET, there was already a swarm of fur trimmed and diamond studded guests mulling through the exhibits. “Thanks again for coming,” I said to Antony as we walked through the Roman Art section. He winked at me, which said more than his words could.
It all happened in front of a Roman fresco. I was in the middle of telling an older woman, with more diamonds than hair, the history of the fresco and how it was excavated from Campania, where Mount Vesuvius erupted, when I stopped mid-sentence. “Everyone's heard of Pompeii being buried by Mount Vesuvius and what devastation it caused, but it was able to freeze a moment in history for us to—“