The room was small but neat; the furniture old but serviceable. Carmela could hear someone drunkenly shouting outside the window- in Little Italy, somebody was always drunkenly shouting; it was almost white noise to its residents.

She liked Vito's flat- it was homey without being shabby, cozy and comfortable. Her husband (!) was neat and liked order.

She had learned that early on in their courtship, along with a few other things- that he was always proper in his attire and courteous in his manner, always asking after her Aunt's health - and always, always he would bring her some fruit. She had never tasted cherries so tart and apples so crisp in her entire life, and he would watch for her reaction, a little smile playing on his lips (she would sometimes exaggerate her reaction, watching him watching her, the smile lighting up his whole face).

She loved it best when he brought her oranges, sharing it slice by slice as they walked along the river (chaperoned of course) and sometimes they would reach for the same slice and their hands would touch, sticky and sweet with the juice (and at night, when she would remember these touches, something would unspool below her navel, and she would dream sticky, sweet dreams she dare not tell anyone about).

Their courtship had been a little longer than usual; first, because Vito had wanted to save money for "their" flat (and they had both blushed at the prospects of sharing a roof, living together, and making their own family), and later when Aunt Clara's health had worsened. For a while, it had been touch and go, and privately Carmela had confessed her worry to him. He had taken charge immediately, accompanying them to the clinics, bringing medicines and food, and keeping her company. She had been extremely grateful for him and her aunt had gradually gotten better.

Their wedding had been small and simple, much like most Sicilian peasant weddings were. It had been lively, though, and made livelier yet by Genco- he had danced every dance, and drunk copious amounts of wine so that to an outsider it would seem as if he were the groom. To Carmela, it had been the happiest day in her entire life, and she had hoped her family was watching from the heavens and rejoicing with her.

And now it was night, her first one as wife to a man.

She fiddled with the hem of her new cotton nightgown trimmed with some pretty lace- a beautiful thing of pink and white she had found, quite accidentally, in her Aunt's cupboards. Out loud, She had wondered if Vito would like it to Signora Abbandando who had almost choked on her coffee. "The nightgown is the last thing he would be noticing, topolina". She had blushed then, and she blushed now.

Vito entered the room and all thoughts of nightgowns and lace went out of her head. He closed the door, sighing loudly (her husband, Carmela would come to know in a few weeks, was a man of great sighs- as if the weight of the entire world rested on the bony shoulders of an 18-yr old Grosseria employee), grumbling about having to haul Genco back to his home.

Ah, so he had been the drunk howling outside their window!

For a while, they were silent, taking stock of each other.

How handsome he had looked, her husband, in his wedding finery; his soft hair gelled back so he looked older and finer, and his smile had quite transformed his face and many of the other girls had asked him to dance and had giggled so when he had declined. For the first time they had been able to touch properly, and she had liked the weight of his hand on her waist and the play of wiry muscles under her own.

But she liked him best now because he was only like this for her- his soft hair mussed up, a sheen in his brown eyes, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a bit of hair. She idly wondered if the hair went down all the way (late one evening the Signora and her aunt had taken it upon themselves to educate her on the facts of life in the crassest, most ribald way possible; their coarse laughter chasing her as she had run away, embarrassed. For days afterward she had refused to meet Signor Abbandando's eyes, and her late Uncle Federico's portrait had sat undusted in fear she would break it from the force of her giggles).

Her husband in turn looked at her too – her black hair, left open now, and the nightgown she had painstakingly worked on, to the tips of her naked feet- and she felt a shiver go down her spine. He turned off the light as he approached her, and now there was only the little lamp on the bedside table and the full moon to light them. His hand (fingers long and pretty but slightly rough, each bump sending a frission of heat through her) reached out to touch her, and in the moonlight, his smile was even more luminous.

"It's a pretty gown, cuoro mia.Did you make it yourself?", she had wordlessly nodded, pleased at the compliment.

And then, they had stalled again, until she had reached out in turn and removed the ties holding it. The gown slithered down into a heap by her feet, but neither noticed, and she felt the familiar sticky sweetness blooming under her navel.

--

She combed her fingers through Vito's hair as he traced soft patterns across her stomach, his hair tickling the silky skin of her breasts. They were still naked, limbs entwined and pleasantly tired, the sweat on their skins cooled by the slight breeze.

They had made it twice, the second time more confident and less frenzied, taking their time with each other.

Once, they had both reached out for a kiss, and their teeth had clacked together painfully; both had dissolved into giggles over their awkwardness. It had been easier after that, and she hadn't felt any shame in exploring her husband's body (mio Dio, the hair did go all the way down there!) and he in turn hers. In the end, something had unclenched within her, and a small ecstasy of pleasure had taken over, making her body go limp as she sighed Vito's name. Signora Abbandando had told her (and she had sighed too, her gaze far away and a blush blooming on her withered face) so she had not been taken by surprise, and he had seemed pleased too.

Besides, she had quite liked it.

As she combed his hair, he started speaking, his life before her (he phrased it like that too, as if their meeting was so monumental as to shift the trajectory of his life, and she was awed and pleased) – of his childhood in Corleone, Don Ciccio and the tragedy of his family, and his coming to America. All through it, she continued stroking his hair, trying so that her hands wouldn't tremble (that her husband could have died as a child of nine scared her, and until their fateful trip to Sicily she would sometimes dream of lupara-wielding henchmen chasing her husband).

"When I first saw you, Genco said I had looked as if I had been struck by the thunderbolt," he continued, his breath tickling the fine hair on her breasts, "but that's not how it seemed to me".

This time he turned to look at her, brown eyes intense with emotions, and cradled her face in his hands, " All my life, I have felt as if a storm is brewing inside me, tesoro mio. You made it quiet".

That night, and every night since, they had slept back to chest, like two spoons in a cutlery drawer.