Madiba|| unedited

seven🐝

zach's pov

"I was actually going to call today." Her breezy voice filled my ears and I smiled.

"Were you now?" I quirked a brow and shifted in my seat.

"Yes, but... School, I guess."

"How are you doing?" I asked, smiling again. Her voice made me feel giddy, like a teenager in love.

"Ok, I guess, I miss New Orleans. How's Miami? Are you back there yet?" She asked.

"Yes. I arrived this afternoon," I said.

"That's good. Thank you so much for the record. I love it so much." She squeaked out.

"Anything for a pretty girl. Didn't expect you to be into that kind of music if I'm being honest."

"Why? Because I'm black?" She sounded offended.

"No." I answered back honestly before I could stop myself.

"You're quite confusing, Mr. Machiavelli." She said, obviously irritated.

"So I've been told. I'm just saying, be hundred percent honest with me, how many people your age do you know who listen to Joanie?" I asked, a cocky smirk, played on my lips. I wasn't racist, I was just asking.

There was a short pause over the phone. "Very few." She mumbled.

"It has nothing to do with your race, just your age."
.

..

"Okay then, cool. What type of music do you like?"

"Italian Contemporary." I answered, biting my lip.

"Oh my God!" She whispered.

"What?"

"I just realized you're Italian."

I chuckled from her honesty. A lot of people didn't know I was Italian, it always irked me. But with Winnie, I wasn't even angry or annoyed.

"You're not the first to look past that." I shrugged, fiddling with my fountain pen between my fingers.
I looked down the pile of files I had just read through.

"I've always wanted to go to Italy. It's like one of my top must-see countries. Right after Greece."

"Greece cannot be compared to Italy." I said quickly.

She laughed, I could just imagine her right now, throwing her head back and laughing.

"I'll keep that in mind." Her soft voice made my heart flutter in some kind of way

"You should darling." I mumbled.

"You know, I find it kind of strange how I told you quite a bit about me, and I don't know that much about you."

"Well, you like people the less you know them." I shot back.

"Touché," she replied. I imagined her, sitting in bed, propped up against pillows, her braids in her usual high ponytail. I hummed involuntarily.

"But, on the other hand," she continued. "I want to know exactly what I'm getting myself into. I should at least know the basic, things like where exactly you're from, what you do for a living, if you're in school, how old are you? What—"

"Slow your horses, darling, I have an idea." I chuckled lowly.

"Sorry." She apologized quickly.