See? I can write a nice story where no one dies.
The young man stepped out of his car and into the slanting afternoon sunshine. His feet hardly seemed to touch ground as he crossed the small parking lot and bounded up the three flights of stairs.
Apartment 3-G. He rang the bell and poked his head through the unlocked door. Blouseless, she ran to greet him with hairbrush in hand. “Anyone home?” he smiled as she stretched to kiss him.
They parted, breathless. “Oh, this is for you.” He held out a slightly-crushed white corsage. “Now hurry up or we’ll be late.” He slapped her buttock through her black skirt as she turned to go. She giggled as she scurried back to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later. “How do I look?” He put down his magazine and looked at her framed in the the light from the hall. She had put on a blue silk blouse and had pinned back her long, dark hair. “Beautiful,” he said as he arose to kiss her.
“We’d better be going,” she said at last. He held the door for her as the stepped out into the warm summer air. Arms around each other, they walked to the car.
He slowed the car into his parents driveway. “We’re here.” She drew away and he hurried around the car to open the door for her.
As they neared the house, they could hear the sound of a woman’s raised voice through the storm door.
“…and those Rosalettis.” the voice was saying, “if only they had let things be. We could be rich, I tell you, rich…”
He whispered in her ear, “The Rozalettis are sone relatives out East that stole an inheritance, some ‘treasure’, intended for us, or so I’m told. Ma’s pretty big on the subject.” She returned his smile as they entered the house.
“…robbers! Theives!, I…” the voice belonged to a short, stout woman in her early forties who turned a surprised face toward them. “Mimmo! Antonio, my baby!” She threw herself about his waist nearly toppling him.
“Mamma, I’d like you to meet…”
“And you must be Clara. Antonio has told us so much about you.”
“Glad to meed you, Mrs. Marioni,” the girl responded.
“You’re early, Tony,” Mr. Marioni said from the doorway. The two men embraced. “Hello, Pappa.
“Pappa, this is Clara.” Mr. Mariani took the girl’s hand. He looked into her eyes. “Don’t let this one go, Antonio. They don’t come any prettier.”
Clara blushed. “Now I know where Tony gets his charm, Mr. Marioni.”
“Tony? Charm?” He slapped his son on the back and laughing, steered them both toward the living room.
They had only been talking a few minutes when Mrs. Marioni arose, “I had better see about dinner.”
“I’ll help.” The two women disappeared into the kitchen, their voices audible through the doorway.
Mr. Marioni turned to his son. “A very nice girl, Tony.”
“Eat, Tony, or it will get cold.” But Tony and Clara had eyes for little else than each other. Mr. and Mrs. Marioni exchanged a smile, remembering the days of their youth.
“Is it that late already?” Tony stood up. “We had better be going.” They had been talking in the living room for nearly an hour after Clara had helped Mrs. Marioni clear the table.
Mr. and Mrs. Marioni saw the younger couple to the door. With an abundance of hugs, they said goodnight. Tony put his arm around Clara to protect her from the chill of the evening as they walked to the car.
Mrs. Marioni watched them go and saw how her baby’s heart had been stolen.
“Such a nice girl,” Mr. Marioni was saying, “She must be some relation.”
“Probably a Rozaletti,” Mrs. Marioni said as she burst into tears.
