The Barrio.
uno
Blonde hair peeped out from the back of the bus stop bench. It was a strange sight for El Chico Cerrito barrio, where almost everyone was Mexican or dark-skinned. And it was definitely a strange sight for Ramon Moreno, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a natural blonde, especially in the barrio.
He neared the bench and entered the girl’s line of view. She jumped in the air at the sight of the tall and rather intimidating-looking Mexican. He chuckled. She wasn’t very perceptive.
“Hola.” He said. His voice was deep and had the certain quality to his voice that was clearly Hispanic (if she couldn’t already tell from his obvious appearance).
“Oh – no, I don’t speak Spanish.” She tried to gesture her sentence out but he didn’t seem to get what she was saying. “Uh, me no espanol – por favor?”
He threw his head back and laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that made her blush.
“I speak English. Very well, actually. And you’re going to have a hard time living in the barrio not speaking Spanish. Do you mind if I sit?” She shook her head and he took a seat next to her, “Assuming that you are living in the barrio.” She nodded silently and he continued, “Well you might want to learn. Spanish. You do know what a barrio is, right?”
She nodded again. “A Spanish community? I’m having a difficult time with the street signs and such,” she gestured to the sign next to her, which was in Spanish. “This is the bus stop, right?”
He smiled, revealing pearly whites. “Sí.” He stopped, and glanced over at her with a smirk playing on his lips, “You do know what that means?”
She rolled her eyes and tried to hold back the smile threatening to break through.
The girl took advantage of their silence to observe him. He was pretty tall, taller than her at least, and had a mustache and slight facial hair on the chin. He was wearing a tan fedora that looked worse for wear, and she couldn’t ignore the ink sprawling on his forearm. It was the Virgin Mary.
He tried as hard as he could to look inconspicuous as he took a sideways glance at her. She was small, wearing jean shorts, brown leather combat boots (dusted with desert sand) and a red plaid shirt that looked like it belonged on a boy. She had limp blonde hair that hung in tendrils, with olive green eyes framed with dark lashes. Her nose was dusted with freckles.
“What’s your name?” She asked, snapping him out of his reverie.
“Uh, Ramon. You?”
“Claire Dane.”
“Nice to meet you Claire.”
“Very nice to meet you, Ramon.”
He neared the bench and entered the girl’s line of view. She jumped in the air at the sight of the tall and rather intimidating-looking Mexican. He chuckled. She wasn’t very perceptive.
“Hola.” He said. His voice was deep and had the certain quality to his voice that was clearly Hispanic (if she couldn’t already tell from his obvious appearance).
“Oh – no, I don’t speak Spanish.” She tried to gesture her sentence out but he didn’t seem to get what she was saying. “Uh, me no espanol – por favor?”
He threw his head back and laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that made her blush.
“I speak English. Very well, actually. And you’re going to have a hard time living in the barrio not speaking Spanish. Do you mind if I sit?” She shook her head and he took a seat next to her, “Assuming that you are living in the barrio.” She nodded silently and he continued, “Well you might want to learn. Spanish. You do know what a barrio is, right?”
She nodded again. “A Spanish community? I’m having a difficult time with the street signs and such,” she gestured to the sign next to her, which was in Spanish. “This is the bus stop, right?”
He smiled, revealing pearly whites. “Sí.” He stopped, and glanced over at her with a smirk playing on his lips, “You do know what that means?”
She rolled her eyes and tried to hold back the smile threatening to break through.
The girl took advantage of their silence to observe him. He was pretty tall, taller than her at least, and had a mustache and slight facial hair on the chin. He was wearing a tan fedora that looked worse for wear, and she couldn’t ignore the ink sprawling on his forearm. It was the Virgin Mary.
He tried as hard as he could to look inconspicuous as he took a sideways glance at her. She was small, wearing jean shorts, brown leather combat boots (dusted with desert sand) and a red plaid shirt that looked like it belonged on a boy. She had limp blonde hair that hung in tendrils, with olive green eyes framed with dark lashes. Her nose was dusted with freckles.
“What’s your name?” She asked, snapping him out of his reverie.
“Uh, Ramon. You?”
“Claire Dane.”
“Nice to meet you Claire.”
“Very nice to meet you, Ramon.”
♠ ♠ ♠
what do you think?