My first marriage was fine. We had matching towels, a shared Netflix queue, and arguments about who forgot to take out the trash. It was safe, like a beige sweater that never quite fit.
Then I met Vito — not his real name, but you get the vibe. He wasn’t safe. He walked into my coffee shop wearing a three-piece suit, ordered a black coffee, and tipped me a hundred-dollar bill. I thought he was a movie producer.
Turns out, he was a producer — of a very different kind of production. He “makes people offers they can’t refuse,” but honestly, he’s surprisingly bad at assembling IKEA furniture. That is the real test of a man.
