Love is Just a Moment by Taylor Hill Page B

flitting thoughts and voices as she struggled to make sense of her situation. This kind of thing never happened to her and if it did, she made sure to get out of it as soon as possible. What was the correct procedure here? What was the etiquette? More importantly—what was his interest in her? Romantic or merely friendly?
    “You are a little flustered no? The heat is too much?”
    Rebecca smiled, using all of her strength to get a grip on herself. Deep breaths, deep breaths. “Yes,” she lied, “yes, it’s quite hot for me, I’m not used to it. Back in Chicago at this time of year it could still be freezing now, snow…” her voice trailed off into a mouse-squeak.
    Piero raised a brow as he considered her, the smile falling from his face into something more serious. “Chicago,” he said, “Al Capone, bang bang bang…”
    “Ha, yeah,” Rebecca smiled, “I guess that’s what it’s famous for, that and the blues, but really it’s just like any other city.”
    Piero smiled again. “Well I am a glad to hear that,” he said, “and the blues—I love the blues—such powerful music, such sorrow. Do you play?”
    “Do I…? Oh, no, I played a little piano growing up but not much. Do you? Play, I mean?”
    “Yes,” Piero nodded. “I play, I play and sing, though not the blues. Not the American blues at least. I sing the folk songs of the island, which are, in their own way, also sorrowful.”
    Woah, so he was a musician too? And, by the way he spoke, she wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he was a poet as well. Rebecca wasn’t sure if she’d landed in heaven or hell. It all depended on whether she blew it or not.
    An old woman appeared from the arched doorway of the café and Piero clicked his fingers at her, authoritatively but not rude, before unleashing a spiel of rapid Sicilian-dialect Italian that Rebecca could barely make out. Pausing he turned back to face her.
    “Do you speak it?” he asked.
    “Oh, um… a little. Un po’ . But your dialect is hard for me to understand.”
    “No problem, I tell her that we would like some coffees, sound good?”
    “Yes,” Rebecca smiled, “thank you.” She turned to the old woman, whose wrinkled weather-beaten face was inscrutable in its expression. “Thank you,” she said again and the woman nodded slightly in return before going back inside, leaving them alone once more in the sun.
    “So, are you visiting somebody here?” she asked Piero.
    He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
    “Oh, family?”
    “No, not family.”
    There was something in his expression that made Rebecca not want to press him, as though he had come here under somewhat tragic circumstances, perhaps to a funeral or to visit the grave of an old friend—which would explain why he’d been waiting at that old historic-looking graveyard further down the mountain. Now that she was beginning to calm down a bit and get back in touch with her emotions, she found that it saddened her to see him that way. Though they’d only just met, she felt that he was a good man, a deep soul even, though maybe that was just her own projection of him. Regardless, she preferred this cute Italian stranger when he had that big open smile of his.
    “I must apologize,” Piero said, “I have invited you to join me and I have not yet even asked you your name…”
    She smiled. “Rebecca.”
    “Rebecca,” Piero repeated slowly, sounding the word out to himself, before smiling in a warm, self-satisfied way. “It is a beautiful name. Rebecca, I am very glad that I could make your acquaintance today.” He reached out his hand, almost formal in his manner, and when she took it (or rather, let him take hers) she felt a tingle shoot down her spine and into her belly at the touch of his warm, smooth palm.
    She was spellbound for a moment and sad when he let her go again, drawing his own hand back to his side of the table.
    “I hope you do not mind that I asked you to join me,” he said, eyeing her expression with a