A LITTLE LOVE

Her name was Cookie, and she lived with her grandparents on occasions on Hull Street, Brooklyn, why, I never knew. She was a budding Italian beauty and I was falling in love. Beautiful almond-shaped eyes that seemed to be lent to her from some ancient Roman or Tuscan beauty you see in art history books.

She would stand on the top of the steps of her grandparent’s stoop and watch the world go by, and when she did, she held my attention. My whole world seemed frozen in time.

Cookie had an older brother named Jerry, a likable kid who I walked with once to buy Italian bread for his family. But still, I never spoke to Cookie. Her grandpa was a bocce player, tossing the ball with style, his delivery followed by a few Italian choice words, his feet scraping the pebbled driveway that was the playing field.

On the side was a table that held cups of coffee and vino, with cigars and cigarettes strewn haphazardly for the other players to imbibe in. Cookie would watch from the stoop and listen to the old men talk in Italian. I would fantasize playing the old guys and beating them soundly, Cookie watching in admiration, her grandpa showering me in praise. Instead, I watched Cookie watch her grandpa.

Then one Sunday night just as the sun was going down, there she stood, off the stoop and instead was standing at the entrance to the driveway. Summing up my courage I made my move, sliding into position in front of her! Her eyes looked more beautiful than usual as the Brooklyn sun dropped behind the apartment building across the street. Yes, Brooklyn was beautiful at that time of day!

As we talked and I made her laugh, I looked up at my apartment window and Dad was leaning out the bedroom window listening to everything. Suddenly I lost my boldness, Dad was for sure going to tease me to no end and I knew it.

I bid my first true love goodbye and slowly slumped up the two flights of stairs to my apartment where I presented myself to the slaughter of my dreams.