Sunlight streamed through the trees, bathing the porch in light. The warmth made the air heavy-contentedly, peacefully-and the quiet was broken only by the simple strumming of a guitar.
And then, not long after a few notes are left to hang in the hazy air, a voice-untrained, but pleasant enough-joined the notes, Spanish intertwining easily with
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Hey, is that kid who I think it is?
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Romanito was so cute when he was little, wasn't he?
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[brb not getting it.]
You mean the things he said, and everything?
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*brb not getting it either.*
Iggy does that too sometimes. I wonder why?
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See, it doesn't make sense.
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[Oblivious, thy name is Spain.]
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I can never tell what those two are thinking anyway.
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Well, I'm just glad that I still get to see him sometimes. I miss him.
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