The doorbell rang. A long ring. Twice in a row. Isabel was already irritated. Why did they have to press the button so hard? The first ring was loud enough. She took a deep breath. “It’s just a few hours. I’ll survive.”
She opened the door with a smile for her cousin, whom she hadn’t seen in ten years, the last time being at another relative’s wedding. They hadn’t kept in touch. Somehow, she and Theresa never clicked. But now, they had to meet. Theresa’s husband had started working in the same city where Isabel lived.
Bruno didn’t wait for Isabel to invite him in.
“I wouldn’t live in a place like this,” he remarked, standing with his hands on his hips as the entire yard came into view.
Isabel’s eyes widened at the comment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, glancing around the large, landscaped yard with flowers and lush grass.
“There’s no shade anywhere! How can you live like this?” he asked, bewildered.
Isabel timidly pointed to the domed terrace she had built next to the house.
“Pff. That’s a terrace. It’s not part of the yard. Come on, let me see the rest of the house!”
Isabel couldn’t believe her ears.
“I’m not taking off my shoes. That’s a given for me,” Bruno declared as he walked confidently across the plush turquoise carpet in the living room. He plopped down on the couch.
“Is this cake some kind of appetizer?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t prepare anything else. I thought we could have coffee.”
“Seriously?” Bruno snapped, his tone growing irritated. “I’m starving. You must have some food! And this little cake looks weird anyway.”
Isabel looked to Theresa for help, but she just shrugged her shoulders and grinned, as if amused by her husband’s boorish behavior.
“There’s only spaghetti…”
“Alright, heat it up,” Bruno cut her off. “Put some tomato sauce on it; that’ll do. I’m too hungry to be picky.”
As soon as Isabel placed the plate in front of him, Bruno dove into the food.
“This pasta’s really sticky. No woman can cook good pasta. It’s either too hard or like this,” he said, shaking his head disapprovingly.
Isabel didn’t respond. She walked into the living room, separated from the kitchen by an archway. She consoled herself with the fact that the brute wasn’t eating on the couch, with his feet—shoes and all—propped up on the decorative cushions.
The hostess picked up the plate of cakes.
“What are you doing with that?” Bruno asked, his mouth full.
“I’m packing it away. You said you didn’t like it.”
“I’ll still have some with the cappuccino.”
He looked around the kitchen.
“Do you have a milk frother?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame. Theresa, make some proper coffee if you dragged me all the way here.”
“So, where do you guys live?” Isabel tried to start a conversation.
“In a ten-story building in the capital,” Bruno replied between bites. “On the tenth floor. The view’s great from up there.” He swallowed hard to get down the last bite. “But with this job here, I’m going to make a killing and buy a house. Five times bigger than yours. And my car will be way cooler. Yours is such a woman’s car. Overpriced and not worth the money. I’m going to get something much better. In fact, two, because Theresa will get something girly. But not like yours. Yours is crap. I hate leather seats. Especially this silly cream-colored kind.”