You’d laugh if you saw him. Greasy black hair done in curls on top of his olive skin, green eyes narrowed in a thoughtful gaze towards the ground. Black t-shirt, roughed-up blue jeans, dilapidated Converses that kick a rock along the side of the road. A cigarette between his lips and a silver ring he keeps fidgeting with. He is, for all intents and purposes, a stereotypical Italian boy in your small town.

He’s the kind of boy who ”ain’t too smart” or who’s better with his hands under a hood than with a pencil on paper. He keeps to himself. That’s why you’ve never seen him around here.

His name is Angelo, and you can’t take your eyes off of him.

The rock he kicks skips all the way across the sidewalk and hits the bench you’re sitting on. It ricochets and hits your leg. Angelo speaks around his cigarette.

“Sorry.”