in the small town gino spent his summers in there wasn't much to do beside bike around, sketch in the shadows of the orange and lemon trees, chill at the shore of the river that separated the shops and marketplace from the more rural estates and work at one of those small businesses, selling the harvest of some of the farmers

wearing a loose, red polo shirt, awfully big jorts and his three beaded bracelets that bugged him immensely while sketching, gino sat behind the counter of the little shop he worked at, his knees pulled up to his chest with his chin resting on them as his pencil danced over the blank page before him

the makeshift chair made out of stacked wooden boxes used to transport citrus fruits swayed dangerously whenever he moved, forcing him to steady himself with his free hand on the table

next to him sat a small paper box full of cherries, ready for him to eat, but gino had placed 1.10€ in the cash register and gotten himself a leach instead

those he loved, the sweet, rich taste of the fruit, the aesthetic of liking them, the way he felt like he was somewhere in northern italy whenever he bought - or sometimes stole - one

gino's summer always felt like that; petting stray cats on the street, sketching out random statues that he saw when he was on the way to work, just like now

he wasn't sure, but the outline of the feminine torso that started to become clearer on his paper did look quite a lot like hera

with sufjan stevens' mystery of love drowning out the sounds of the old ac and the chattering people walking past the entrance he was entirely caught up in his artwork

when you walked into the thickly sweet, orange scented air of the store, however, he was forced to look up and pull his headphones off his head, giving you a brief, polite smile

"ciao," he greeted you, his eyes flickering between you and his paper as he continued to sketch, trying not to make it obvious that you had sparked his interest; if you needed help, you'd surely speak up