As he leaned in closer, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face and his tempting lips mere inches away from mine. Our eyes locked onto each other, unable to look away as the tension between us grew stronger. We both knew what was about to h...
The air buzzed with the rhythmic ambiance of Brooklyn's evening, along with the lively chatter as my cousins and I sat on the stoop of my uncle's apartment. Puffs of smoke curled into the air as some of my cousins smoked, keeping watch of everyone who walked into the neighborhood.
The sun dipped below the horizon, but never failed to cast its remaining light over the city, leaving a golden glow that radiated warmth.
'Mahè' by Piero Umiliani lingered in the background of our conversations and playful banter. The jazzy rhythms, a blend of smooth saxophones, and rhythmic guitar chords were a peaceful contrast from the symphony of Brooklyn's streets.
I was a lover of jazz because Uncle Marco's relentless dedication to playing jazz unforgivably left its imprint on me. My cousins pretend to not like it. Yet, I noticed their occasional hums and subtle nods.
All of the chatter halted abruptly when my cousins caught of glimpse of someone walking into the neighborhood.
My gaze followed their line of sight, revealing the sight of a familiar girl—Her hips swayed ever so slightly with each step, adding a classy but captivating touch to her. Her black dress swayed with each step, flaunting her long legs. An oversized light brown coat draped over her shoulders. Mary Janes adorned her feet, adding to her height.
Her mere presence was a vibrant contrast against the brown hues and greenery of the neighborhood.
From the very first day I met her, she left a lasting impression on me. My mother introduced me to her, and since then, I couldn't stop thinking about her. Despite my strong desire to talk to her, the fear of judgment held me back. I often saw her around, usually by herself, but I was always with my friends or cousins. Every time I saw her, it felt like time stood still.
Holding a stack of books, she moved with a purpose that seemed to defy the casual chaos of Brooklyn's streets, unconsciously capturing my undivided attention.
As she glanced over, our eyes locked in a silent exchange. Her low-set, rich brown eyes held a playful spark, and a knowing smile graced her full lips. She averted her gaze with a subtle shake of her head, exuding an unexplainable allure. Her unwavering smile was evident by the faint dimple that remained on her cheek.
The golden hues of her stud earrings shimmered in the fading sunlight, as did her deep brown skin. She moved with an effortless confidence, capturing my undivided attention in a way no other girl had.
My cousins, caught in a momentary pause, exchanged glances. "She's in the wrong neighborhood," Vito put out his cigarette, implying an intent to confront her.
Yet, I felt an inexplicable pull to speak to her again, "I got it," I told my cousins, pushing off the stoop and walking across the street.
Approaching her, every step carried more anticipation, intensifying the rhythm of my heartbeat.
She met my gaze with curiosity swirling in her eyes. Despite my nervousness, I greeted her, "Hey. Diana, right?" She nodded.
Our steps synchronized, slowing into a shared pace, and our eye contact unwavering, "And you're Dante?" Her voice, soft yet velvety, resonated within me.
I nodded, "Let me take those," She handed me the stack of books and slipped her hands into her coat pockets.
"Do you know that this is an Italian neighborhood? If you're lost, I could help you ." A sense of embarrassment washed over me as I noticed my nerves manifesting in words.
As we walked side by side, the subtle scent of Diana's vanilla perfume enveloped the air around us.
She chuckled, her laughter bubbly and melodic, "No, I'm not. Thank you though."
Seamlessly, she guided our conversation, her expressive eyes narrowing inquisitively. "What are you doing around here?"
"I spend most of my time here."
She glanced at my cousins despite their judgemental gazes, "With them?"
"Yeah, they're my cousins."
As Diana spoke, her words carried a melodious rhythm, an effortless cool that hinted at her being from the West Coast, "They were never taught that it's rude to stare?" She quipped.
I smiled, shaking my head at how she could say the smallest things that made her seemingly more attractive.
"You're Sicilian, right?" She raised a brow, inviting me to share more.
"Yeah, I was born in Corleone, Sicily."
Her hum signified a subtle acknowledgment, and even with our height difference, she maintained an aura of confidence and poise.
"That explains your second last name," she mused, more to herself. "I like Italy."
I found myself genuinely interested in her fondness for my home country, "What do you like about it?"
"The culture," She paused, her gaze briefly lingering on me, "The people."
As our conversation went on, I found the perfect moment to ask her out, "How about I take you to a trattoria? My uncle owns one nearby" I proposed.
Her eyes, holding a playful glint, scrutinized me, searching for the underlying intention in my invitation. "I'll think about it." As she took the books, our fingers brushed. With one last look, she spun on her heel, gracefully continuing her walk, leaving me entranced by the lingering memory of her presence.
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