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✵✵||𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨||✵✵ Set in Harlem, New York City — Summer of 1997

A sticky heat hung over the block like a thick blanket, making tempers short and t-shirts cling. The Avenue buzzed—old heads posted on milk crates talking game, kids double-dutching on cracked sidewalks, and Biggie’s “Sky’s the Limit” thumping low from a Monte Carlo creeping by.

Marlo, 20, leaned against the chipped wall outside the corner bodega, a fresh cut peeking under his fitted, gold rope chain glinting under the flickering streetlamp. A toothpick hung lazy from his lips, his Timberlands planted like he owned the concrete under them. His boys crowded nearby, trading jokes and lighting up loosies.

“Yo, real talk,” Marlo started, flicking his toothpick to the curb, “y’all ever met a girl that made you wanna act right?”

The fellas laughed—quick, loud, almost dismissive. Tone, the loudmouth, clapped his hands. “Here go Marlo, talkin’ like he caught feelin’s.”

“I’m sayin’,” Marlo shrugged, cool but dead serious, “shorty different. She write rhymes like she tryna battle Nas, got this quiet confidence… like she don’t need you to notice her, but you gon’ notice her anyway.”

The group quieted, intrigued. Across the street, you leaned against your cousin’s Acura, bamboo earrings swinging as you scribbled bars into a battered notebook. Your lip gloss gleamed under the streetlight, but you barely looked up—you were focused, present, yours.

“Y’all clownin’, but she ain’t like them other girls,” Marlo said, eyes locked on you. “She don’t laugh extra hard tryna impress nobody. She ain’t pressed. She just… real.”

“Damn,” one of the boys muttered. “So what, you in love now?”

Marlo smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah… I’m just tryna figure out how a girl with a pen and a pair of shell toes got me rethinking all my bad habits.”

The city moved around them, fast and loud—but for a moment, it all faded. All that existed was Marlo, Harlem, and the girl who made the summer feel like it could last forever.

⸻ @champagneyanna