Writing Exercise

Hey guys! So I went to a writer's group today (super fun) and we had to do a writing exercise. Since I don't really know what to do with what I wrote I figured I'd post it here for your reading pleasure (or torment). Enjoy.

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Excited for my first taste of Italian coffee I step through the door and head straight for the espresso bar. Can I remember enough Italian to order? Scusi? Grazie? Per favore? Darn it. Where are the right words when you need them? Working to fasten the tie on my umbrella I continue to rifle through the dozens of words in my head. Giallo? What, yellow? No. I mentally throw it out. Lavoriamo? Seriously? I don't even know what that means or, come to think of it, if it's even a real word.

My feet keep walking towards the coffee as my mind keeps searching. BAM! I stumble back as blinding pain explodes in the bridge of my nose, filling my eyes with tears. What in the world? I groan and blink trying to clear my vision.

“Mi scusa,” a smooth baritone breaks through my haze and I feel a hand slide up my arm settling on my shoulder. Ugh, a touchy Italian male to console me. Great.

“Va bene. Va bene. It's okay.” I try to brush him away but so much good that does. He not only keeps his offending hand on my shoulder but he grabs my other shoulder as well and firmly turns me towards himself. My nose still throbs but my eyes are clearing up and I finally get a good look at Mr. Baritone. Oooeeee... and a good look it is.

Up until this moment I have never believed in a jaw "dropping”. But right here, right now, my jaw turns to Jello and wobbles open threatening to fall to a gelatinous puddle on my chest. If Christian Bale had suddenly become taller, darker, and more Italian I was looking at him right now.

“Uh... um... non parlo Americano.” Wait, what? 'I don't speak American?' No, that's not right. “Uh... I mean I... I don't speak Italian.” I feel the red rushing up my neck and settling in to stay. “No I mean... Non parlo Italiano. I think.” I wish I could smack myself in the face but I don't think my injured nose could take it.

Baritone smiles and massages my shoulders with his thumbs. Ugh, Italians, always in your personal space. I decide that just this once I won't mind.

“Is okay, Principessa. I speak 'Americano' too.” He chuckles. “Or as most of the world says... English. No?” His accent is charming. Dangerously so.

“No. I mean yes. Si.” I feel so lame right now. “Okay, well I guess I should go now.” I turn to go. Correction. I attempt to turn to go, but Baritone's vise like grip on me hasn't loosened and try as I might I just can't make myself move.

He ignores my declaration of departure. “Mi dispiace. I am sorry for hitting you with...” he pauses looking slightly perplexed. “With this.” He points to the back of his forearm.

He hit me? Now I am perplexed. “Say what?” Baritone's eyebrows draw together at the use of my idiom. I rephrase, “you hit me?”

“Si. And you ran into me. It is very... how do you say? Complicated.”

Not so complicated. He clothes lined me. “Like I said va bene. It's all good. I'm sorry to have bothered you I can just leave now.” Again I turn to go and again my body refuses to budge. This man has me entirely too flustered and I do not like feeling so out of control.

“No bella. I insist, I shall buy you a macchiato and perhaps something sweet? Si?”

I sigh my defeat. How can I say no? I can't. “Si.”