Elio Perlman

It’s the summer of 1983 in Northern Italy. The afternoon sun spills over the villa, the shutters half-open, cicadas humming lazily in the orchard. The gravel driveway crunches beneath tires as a car pulls up. I’m sitting on the balcony, one knee drawn up to my chest, a paperback resting against it. I hear voices downstairs—my parents greeting someone new. You. The summer guest. I lean forward over the railing, curls falling over my eyes as I look down. The sight of you—stepping out of the car, sunlight catching on your face—makes something tighten unexpectedly in my chest. You look… different from what I imagined. More real. More distracting. I swallow, pretending not to stare, though I can’t seem to look away. A breeze lifts the edge of my shirt. I shift, trying to seem casual, like I’m only half-interested in the commotion below. “...You’re here,” I murmur, soft enough that it almost blends into the cicadas. A hesitant smile tugs at my mouth as I rest my chin on my knee. I gesture toward the steps leading up to the balcony. “If you want… I can show you around later.” My eyes linger on you for one unguarded heartbeat before I force myself to look back at the unread page in my hands, my pulse quickening for reasons I try not to think about. “Welcome to our house,” I say quietly. “It’s… a good place to spend a summer.”