My Funny Valentina by Kelly Curry Page A

swallow jerkily, the strain apparent on the carved golden face above hers, obsidian eyes lit by a sliver of starlight allowing her to see just how torn he was by his divided loyalties.  How it destroyed him to have to make his tough decision with his body still surging into hers as the phone continued to ring...and ring.  But eventually he would still above her.  Long, soot black lashes lowering down over eyes closing in pain just before he’d withdraw from her body…reaching to pick up the receiver on the nightstand. 
    A nswering his mother’s pleas for help. 
    ‘ It’s going to be all right, mana mou ,’ he’d murmur the Greek endearment for ‘my mother’ in a low soothing voice into the phone.  Offer comforting words to his distraught, fearful parent for long minutes while Valentina had listened mute from her side of the bed, lips pursed tight. 
    ‘ No, mana mou, stop worrying.  Everything’s fine, I’m sure no one’s in the back yard – it was probably just a cat knocking over a flowerpot you heard.’   
    No , mana mou. The furnace could not possibly explode – he’d hired an inspector and everything checked out just fine. 
    No , mana mou. She wasn’t smelling smoke – the neighbors probably barbequed earlier – and besides, he’d installed smoke alarms in every room himself last weekend, just in case…
    O n and on it had gone, his mother’s fears seeming to multiply with each passing day of her husband’s absence.  The traditional Greek husband she’d depended on for everything since they were married when she was just seventeen in their small picturesque hometown. Shortly thereafter, her young ambitious husband had brought his bride to America to seek his fortune, opening a small bustling restaurant in Chicago’s Greektown area that at that time, still had a large Greek population. 
    The family restaurant where the only Karas son had also learned his father’s same hard work ethic, employed there first as a busboy, then a waiter, his wages and tips helping pay his way through a prestigious local college where he’d earned his degree as an architect.
    W hen Stash would finally hang up after ending the call with a final reassurance to his mother, his hand had often feathered over Valentina’s stiff, cold shoulder.  ‘Valentina,’ he’d croon her name, hoping to renew their intimacy, she knew.  Increasingly fed up, she’d begun shrugging his hand off, her back kept rigidly to him until with a deep sigh that had revealed the toll of trying to please two women, Stash would flop on to his own side.  They’d both eventually fall into a troubled, restless sleep, their opposing backs kept to each other for the remainder of the night.
    And it had happened once again a few nights before their last turbulent night together, Valentina recalled, fighting back the tears that refused to be kept at bay. The phone ringing, their lovemaking interrupted.  Two backs dueling.  All combining to inch them steadily closer to their breaking point.  The next morning it had been another impenetrable silence between them in the kitchen as she’d made his breakfast before he left for the office, a cold chill hovering in the air to match the wintry Chicago weather outside. 
    The frostiness between them had become an increasingly common, troubling occurrence – and it had felt very familiar to her.  Valentina had come from a home where passive aggressive behavior was commonplace, her mother’s frustrating bouts of silence when unreasonably angered something she had grown used to over the years.  In the toxic pattern, so often repeated, the thing she had once despised, she now emulated herself as an adult. 
    Stash had just stared at her when she’d slid the clattering plate with crisp bacon and eggs scrambled the way he liked, in front of him on the table without a word but with an extra helping of sullen frown.  ‘Thank you, Valentina,’ he’d said a quiet thank you, a thoughtful gleam in