𝐄𝐳𝐫𝐚 | 18+

63

We walk through the center of town, hand in hand, as we take in the area surrounding us. Everyone walking around us seems to be dressed for a special occasion.

"Italians overdress, a bit." Ezra explains, leaning down a few inches to reach my ear. I chuckle and he smiles down at me.

His meeting is later today, and he decided to show me around the town he grew up in, before leaving. He told me that the drive is about an hour, so he wouldn't be able to come back quickly if I needed him to. He made me pinky-promise to call him immediately if I felt uncomfortable or if I needed someone to talk to.

"I'll ditch twenty minutes of that meeting for you." He had said, while we were laying in bed together, tangled between clean sheets. 

"Did you come here often?" I ask, looking up to see his reaction. He shakes his head.

"No, not much. I tried to get out as much as I could but my parents wouldn't let me. I think I had to grow up faster than most kids, because of the way I was raised. My mom hated the fact that we couldn't be kids, but she understood that our family was involved in organized crime, so we couldn't take many risks." He explains, pressing his lips into a straight line after speaking.

I nod once, trying to put myself in his shoes in an attempt to understand the kind of childhood he went through.

We turn a corner and walk up to a coffee shop. It has a cute entrance with black rimmed glass doors, a few stools lined up in front of a wooden slab protruding from the side of the building and three plants hanging under a glass roof, vines escaping the edges of the pots containing them.

Ezra opens the door for me and we walk in. The scent of freshly made espresso fills the whole room, which has a minimalistic setup with a few paintings hanging on the walls along with plenty of plants. Tranquil chatter acts as a background as I take in several people sitting at tables. Some are typing rapidly on their laptops, holding the same concentrated expression as those holding books, flipping through pages as they sip at their coffee. Others, sit at tables across from people who are most likely friends or relatives, chattering happily in a language foreign to me. Almost all of them hold a small white, what looks to be ceramic, cup with a handle not big enough to even fit a finger. They're probably drinking espresso.

I notice how all of them are dressed differently, as if for different occasions.

Ezra leads me to the counter where he points to a wide white board. Written on it are the menu options, varying from cups of coffee to pastries.

"What would you like?" Ezra asks softly. threading a strand of my hair through his fingers before placing his hand around my waist.

I glance up at the menu, wanting to try each and every option, but I go with something I haven't tried before.

"A...caffè macchiato." I say, smiling up at him. He presses a kiss against my forehead right as the barista arrives, twisting a rag inside of a small rounded mug. He has short trimmed blond hair and light eyes that contrast with his black apron.

"Salve, come vi posso aiutare?" He smiles, glancing between Ezra and I.
[Hi, how can I help you?]

"Buongiorno, ci può  fare due caffè macchiati, perfavore?" Ezra asks.
[Hello, could we get two coffees, please?]

"Certamente."
[Of course.]

Ezra pays for our coffees, dismissing me when I offer to pay him back.

"Accomodatevi pure, ve li porteremo noi." The man smiles, turning around to start the Lavazza coffee maker.
[Make yourselves comfortable, we will bring them to you.]