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Walking in, I pause and inhale deeply. I am one of those weirdo’s that smells my books because I just love the way they smell. I wonder around, not sure where to start but am excited to be here. Cris follows, glancing at a few titles himself.

“Are you a reader?” I question.

He shrugs.

“It isn’t my favorite thing to do but… I could always start,” he says with a smile.

“Ooo how about this?” I ask him holding up a biography on Lionel Messi.

Cris growls lowly at me. I giggle and put it back. I look around and realize I am fully in the biography section. I do love to read biographies and autobiographies. Cris flips through a book on the world cup as I scan the shelves to see if anything captures my attention.

“Hm, this could work,” I mutter out loud to myself and reach for a book on Bonnie and Clyde.

“You like that kind of stuff?” Cris asks peering over my shoulder.

“I know some facts about them and the Barrow gang. Did you know that Bonnie Parker wrote poetry? I read ‘The Story of Suicide Sal’ and I found it rather good. Sad to think she could have been so much more than she was,” I reply looking at the back of the book and decide it will be my first purchase.

“Did you read it just because?”

“Actually it was for a college project. I am taking a year off now before sophomore year, but last year, my freshman year, I took a poetry class. Our professor asked us to find a poem, memorize it and dress in character to present to the class. He asked us to use lesser-known poets instead of the usuals, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, you know the most famous poets? Anyway, I was struggling and running out of time. Typical college story right? So I decided to go out and get some shopping done and made my way into a boutique. They had a beret that I decided to try on for fun. I was looking in the mirror and the owner said that I reminded her of Bonnie Parker from the infamous duo of Bonnie and Clyde. So I went back to my dorm to look up info. Sure I had heard of them, who hadn’t? But I didn’t know a lot about them. I read up on them and saw that Bonnie had written a couple of poems that had been published in newspapers in that day. I memorized ‘The Story of Suicide Sal’, dressed up in a Bonnie type of outfit including the beret and recited away for class,” I tell him the story.

“Do you still remember the poem?” Cris asks.
I smile.

“Yes, I do,”

He crossed his arms leaning on the shelf.

“Read when you are Miss Bonnie,” he teases.

Smiling, I begin to recite the poem.

We each of us have a good "alibi"
For being down here in the "joint;"
But few of them really are justified
If you get right down to the point.
You've heard of a woman's glory
Being spent on a "downright cur,"
Still you can't always judge the story
As true, being told by her.
As long as I've stayed on this "island,"
And heard "confidence tales" from each "gal,"
Only one seemed interesting and truthful ---
The story of "Suicide Sal."
Now "Sal" was a gal of rare beauty,
Though her features were coarse and tough;
She never once faltered from duty
To play on the "up and up."
"Sal" told me this take on the evening
Before she was turned out "free,"
And I'll do my best to relate it
Just as she told it to me:
I was born on a ranch in Wyoming;
Not treated like Helen of Troy;
I was taught that "rods are rulers"
And "ranked" as a greasy cowboy.
Then I left my old home for the city
To play in its mad dizzy whirl,
Not knowing how little pity
It holds for a country girl.
There I fell for "the line" of a "henchman,"
A "professional killer" from "Chi;"
I couldn't help loving him madly;
For him even now I would die.
One year we were desperately happy;
Our "ill gotten gains" we spent free;
I was taught the ways of the "underworld;"
Jack was just like a "god" to me.
I got on the "F.B.A." payroll
To get the "inside lay" of the "job;"
The bank was "turning big money!"
It looked like a "cinch" for the "mob."
Eighty grand without even a "rumble"-
Jack was the last with the "loot" in the door,
When the "teller" dead-aimed a revolver
From where they forced him to the floor.
I knew I had only a moment -
He would surely get Jack as he ran;
So I "staged a ""big fade out" beside him
And knocked the forty-five out of his hand.
They "rapped me down big" at the station,
And informed me that I'd get the blame
For the "dramatic stunt" pulled on the "teller"
Looked to them too much like a "game."
The "police" called it a "frame-up,"
Said it was an "inside job,"
But I steadily denied any knowledge
Or dealings with "underworld mobs,"
The "gang" hired a couple of lawyers,
The best "fixers" in any man's town,
But it takes more than lawyers and money
When Uncle Sam starts "shaking you down."
I was charged as a "scion of gangland"
And tried for my wages of sin;
The "dirty dozen" found me guilty -
From five to fifty years in the pen.
I took the "rap" like good people,
And never one "squawk" did I make.
Jack "dropped himself" on the promise
That we make a "sensational break."
Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story,
Five years have gone over my head
Without even so much as a letter -
At first I thought he was dead.
But not long ago I discovered
From a gal in the joint named Lyle,
That Jack and he "moll" had "got over"
And were living in true "gangster style."
If he had returned to me sometime,
Though he hadn't a cent to give,
I'd forget all this hell that he's caused me,
And love him as long as I live.
But there's no chance of his ever coming,
For he and his moll have no fears
But that I will die in prison,
Or "flatten" this fifty years.
Tomorrow I'll be on the "outside"
And I'll "drop myself" on it today:
I'll "bump 'em" if they give me the "hotsquat"
On this island out here in the bay …
The iron doors swung wide next morning
For a gruesome woman of waste,
Who at last had a chance to "fix it."
Murder showed in her cynical face.
Not long ago I read in the paper
That a gal on the East Side got "hot,"
And when the smoke finally retreated,
Two of gangdom were found "on the spot."
It related the colorful story
Of a "jilted gangster gal."
Two days later, a "sub-gun" ended
The story of "Suicide Sal."

I finish the poem, slightly breathless. I realize that several other people have stopped to listen as I had lost myself in the poem. Cristiano begins to clap and the others join in, cheering. Blushing madly, I drop a quick curtsy and give a quick wave to the small crowd.

“That was impressive,” Cris says when we are alone again.

“Well, I did get an A…” I say sheepishly.

“I can see why,” he winks.

I shake my head overwhelmed by the flattery. I turn back to seek more books. Another title catches my eye. Do I dare? I wonder. I pull it out and read the back. Frankly it sounds interesting.

“What do you have there?” Cristiano asks.

“Jackie, Ethel and Joan: Women of Camelot,” I respond.

“Interesting choices there.”

“What do you mean?”

“A book on notorious outlaws and a book on political women…”

I raise my eyebrow at him and smirk.

“I also like Twilight and Harry Potter,” I blink sweetly at him.

He laughs. I move away from the biography/autobiography section and decide to pick up one more book but I need a lighter read. I browse the different selections and at times, pause to steal glances. I can’t believe I am here with Cristiano Ronaldo, the greatest soccer player in the world. Yet, for being as famous as he is, we have not been bothered. I feel comfortable.

I find a new comedy romance by one of my favorite authors and feel ready for now.

“Find anything you want?” I call over to Cris.

He shakes his head.

“Not today,” he shrugs and follows me to the cashier.

The cashier gives me my total and I open my wallet counting out bills.

“I got it,” Cristiano interrupts, paying for my stuff.

I give him a look.

“I didn’t expect you to pay for my stuff…”

“I know you didn’t I wanted to. Learn how to accept gifts babe.”

I thank him but feel moody. I am used to being independent. We walk out into the fresh night air and I suddenly stumble feeling dizzy. Cristiano catches my arm.

“Are you ok?” he asks worriedly.

“I feel strange. Like my head is a balloon floating away from my head,” I respond nervously.

He leads me to a bench and we sit down. I lean forward and he rubs my back.

“Do you think the food is making you sick?” he questions.

I shake my head.

“No, it was great. This just came on suddenly and I just,” I break off as my stomach suddenly heaving.

Eyes wide I look around frantically. Cris yanks my arm quickly and we rush to a garbage can but I throw up before we reach it.

“Oh my gosh!” I gasp realizing where I had thrown up.

Cristiano stands there with my puke all over his shirt. I burst into tears.

“It’s ok, it’s ok calm down,” he tries to reassure me slipping the shirt off and stuffing it into the trash. “Look, it’s no big deal,” he says reaching for me.

“I just turned this into the worst date ever!” I wail.

“AJ, you are sick. No big deal. It happens,”

“But I puked on you!” I cry harder.

Cris hugs me and whispers softly into my hair in Portuguese. I don’t understand what he is saying but it sounds so soothing. My crying slows down, but to be honest, I still feel extremely sick.

“Let’s go darling,” he whispers and leads me back to the car, my book bag in his free hand.

Back at his house, I am feeling ill still. I poke at dessert but have grown so pale, Cristiano takes my temperature and finds me feverish.

“Maybe you should stay the night. I don’t want you driving home. You can stay in the guestroom,” he offers.

Shaking, I agree and with his help, make it up stairs. He dresses me in a spare, soft, soccer jersey of his and I crawl into bed. He tucks me in but I am already fading as he whispers something I can’t make out. The night is rough. I wake several times, throwing up and feeling miserable. I keep Cris awake who joins me in the bathroom every time to hold my hair back.

At five in the morning, I lay with my cheek against the cold tile.

“We have to go to the doctor AJ,” Cristiano insists again.

“You have practice,” I protest.

He gathers me up into his arms and carries me to the bed. I hear him on the phone talking quietly but quickly. Soon he is back, carrying me to the car.

“I called Sergio. He agreed the ER is the best thing to do,” Cris says as he starts the car and begins to drive.

I shut my eyes. I am so worn out. What the heck is going on? I was fine. Everything was fine and then bam it hit me. We got checked in and taken to a back examine room. I had to give permission for Cristiano to be allowed to be back with me as he wasn’t my family or my husband. He had to have them agree to keep his identity secret. The doctor spoke heavily accented English. Cris helped me understand.

“And Miss. Alexandra, when was your last period?” he asked taking notes.

“It was…” I break off thinking. In all the drama of my life lately, I can’t remember exactly the date. I explain to the doctor.

“We need to take some blood tests to start with,” the doctor says and tells the nurse to also start an IV.

I hold Cris’ hand as they draw the blood and put the IV in my arm. I lay back.

“It is probably just stress,” I tell Cris as we wait.

He tucks me in and instructs me to rest. I sigh nervously and try to settle down. We both sleep off and on but it is an uneasy sleep. My stomach is feeling better and I briefly wonder if I had exaggerated everything. At a quarter til eight, the doctor walks back in.

“Good news Miss. Alexandra,” he exclaims and takes a seat.

“The results are in. Congratulations are due. You are six weeks pregnant.
Chapter End Notes:
Received some bad news in my family so I am unable to update very often. I apologize. Hope I still have readers on this story.