Seconds

Nando, I figure, would be married again within a year, to an Italian more in synch with his image of himself. I had decided this long ago, and it has nothing to do with my appearance. He would be the first to admit that I have aged pretty well, better than he has. Nor does he have anyone particular in mind. Rather, that’s the way Italian men are; that is what they need. A second wife wouldn’t make him laugh as much as I do, but she might calm him down, make him feel more important, less threatened.