chatterbox | the spanish italian

"He's Spanish, isn't he?" Chet whispered to me, his tousled hair standing up on end.

"Why would a Spanish guy be in Italy?" I whispered back, scrubbing the washcloth over my sunburnt face. That Italian sun worked wonders on the skin.

"Genevieve, he's probably on vacation like us," my best friend replied, tossing his head in his obnoxiously cocky way. "Maybe he's a Spanish chef who is opening an Italian restaurant in a little town in Spain."

"Maybe he's a Spanish spy who plans to destroy all of Italy for his own personal gain," I offered, lifting my hand. I dropped the washcloth on the sidewalk accidentally, and Chet reached to pick it up.

"Maybe," he said warily, clutching the washcloth in his fingertips as his eyes roved the short man several yards away. "Maybe he is really a well-known musician in his country, and he is trying to escape his fans."

"Or maybe," I shot back, yanking the cloth from his hand and slapping it on my cheeks. "Maybe he's a well-known Spanish convict, and he is trying to escape the authorities." I winced suddenly, realizing that sunburns and scratchy washcloths really did not go very well together. I dropped it on the tiny table between us and kicked up my feet.

"He's probably just a tourist," Chet replied. He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Just like us."

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe." I studied the Spanish man again a moment. "Or maybe he's really a prince of Spain and came to declare war on the Italians. Maybe we'll be the heroes who stop him."

Chet slurped his slurpie before saying, "Eh, he's probably a Spanish trader coming to study the trade of baking."

"Nah, he's probably a Spanish pirate searching for Italian gold buried," I gestured toward the fruit stand the man stood by, "beneath that stand of fruit two hundred years ago."

"Or maybe his girlfriend ran away before he had a chance to propose, and he is looking for her." Chet nodded his head, and a breeze gushed through, loosening a few wisps of hair that were tied back in my messy bun.

"That's sappy," I said. "He's probably a Spanish fisherman come to the luscious vineyards of Italy because he's tired of fish."

We watched as suddenly a companion joined the Spanish man, and they both began walking our direction. We held our breaths, and I felt Chet suddenly reach out and touch my arm protectively. Then the two men were walking past, speaking rapidly in Italian.

"You know," Chet said, pointing a straw at me. "I think he's not even Spanish."

"Maybe," I said. But I still believed he was.



    I did a bit of people watching today and so this post felt strangely familiar - guessing what lies behind people's exteriors, their stories and lives and dreams. . .wonderful story material!!

    Great writing, Em dear!

  2. *loves*

    Those two remind me of when my brother and I people-watch. It's hilarious fun. ^.^

    Keep writing, Emily! You have a gift for it, dear. :) *hugs*

  3. Thank you so much, sweet ladies! <3

  4. This is so great!! =) Love it!