Novel & Cerita Colombian Accent

Epilogue | Two Years Later Niguez sprinted down the stairs and skidded to a stop in front of Trent. "Hola, Dad," he grinned. "¿Cómo estás, hijo?" Trent leaned down, giving the kid a fist bump as they did their signature handshakes. Niguez frowned a little, finding it hard to understand Spanish. Trent grinned with a knowing smile. "Don't worry about it; you're in Colombia, so it'll come naturally."

Puta! He looked down on his plate filled with chilaquiles and huevos rancheros waiting for her answer. "Here and there, señor, But mostly San Jose," she whispered. Her voice was timid. So different from the confident woman he met last night. Though her Spanish was passable there was an underlying accent he couldn't place. -That is not the real her.- Again, he raised his gaze and observed her. Head downcast, focused on her meal, he couldn't get much. "And your parents?"

He also raised his brow at us. "It takes about 20 minutes to get there!" Maxim responded. "So, whether you like it or not, amigos, we are stuck with each other for a while!" Maxim scowled at Roman when the latter chuckled. "What's the matter, amigo? Got a problem with my spañol?" "No abuses de mi lenguaje amigo, tu acento es el peor (Don't abuse my language, my friend. Your accent is the worst)!" Roman laughed, following a chuckle from Luke.

Denver chews his food while the Don is embellishing his food for killing his time. "My bad, again…." Denver beseeches out of the anxiousness of his silence. Angelito smiles like normal, even it's not normal for him to smile around even with his two annoying best friends. "No hay problema," he responded in a coaxing manner. Denver's heart is about to jump out from his shoulder because Angelito is so adorable when speaking in a Spanish accent. "You're a Spanish?" he asked curiously. For him to feed his inquisitiveness, Angelito nods. "Yes, half-Spanish to be exact. How about you, cutie pie?"

His voice rolls out of his mouth like butter, and with the music playing, it's even more rich and velvet than I thought. There's a thick British accent wrapped in every single word that comes out from his mouth that I hadn't picked since the beginning of our conversation. No doubt, very soon, I'm gonna have a stroke. "What's your name?" He asks, tilting his head to the side like he hasn't been staring at me perfectly well since he got here. "Camila." I replied. Now, I am very certain of what he is thinking… the very popular musician Camila Cabello.

Looking down at my cowboy boots and sundress, I laugh and say, “I guess I’m a real Louisianan now.” His laugh is deep and infectious, lighting up his eyes, and revealing the small lines around his face from years of laughing and being in the sun. “With that Yankee accent? I don’t think so.” I bring my hands to my hips. “What’s wrong with my accent?” “Nothin’,” he says with a grin. “It’s very precise.” “Well, sorry,” I say drawing out my vowels. I fan myself dramatically. “It’s hot as tarnation out here. Ain’t ya got a window open?”

“Miss, we believe that some animal could have stung you or something could have hurt you. You had a vaginal hemorrhage, and your friend, Mrs. Liz, told us that she had a bad diving experience where you almost lost your life. It could be that, added to the fact that you are from another climate and eat seafood, there are many of us who are allergic. Here on an island, that situation is difficult. I swear that if it weren't because I love the waves, I would move to a city like Bogotá where I only eat A.C.P.M.” “Doctor, what a pity that in Bogotá they cook with natural gas; it's been a long time since they stopped cooking with gasoline.” “No, A.C.P.M. means asparagus, chili, potato, and meat; i

“So um…where are you from?” If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it, “Republica de Colombia.” “I would take that is Republic of Colombia?” “Si,” he answered and sipped his drink. “You could have just said so in plain English,” she rolled her eyes. “And what good would it do to my countrymen?” He raised an eyebrow.

And just like that, our conversation is steered into one about Colombian coffees, the correlation between Spanish and Italian, and eventually, my heritage. "I've noticed how you say my name," he begins, bringing his cup to his lips. "You say it like...you're familiar with it, you know? Like you speak a Latin language." "Well, I'm half Italian and I'm fluent in Italian. So, that must be it." "Ah, that explains a lot." I raise a brow at him. "A lot?" "You stretch out the 'a' in my name. 'Alejaaaaandro." I can't help but laugh. "Are you serious? I didn't know I did that. That's actually kind of embarrassing. Oh my God."

Ace blurts out. "¡Hijueputa! ¡Doble hijueputa! ¡Triple hijueputa! ¡Culicagado! ¡Pirobo! ¡Gueva!" I scream out a slew of Colombian curse words meaning anything from mother f*cker to brat. I was so frustrated that I had seemingly transitioned into my mother tongue to swear my head off. I couldn't believe it. She had done it again. But this time, she had not only gotten past my men but also a top-of-the-line security system.