First Chapter First Paragraph Tuesday Intros is being hosted by Bibliophile By The Sea-- as it says, you pick a book and post the opening paragraph and see if other people would like to read the book based on its opener.

I found this book on the bookshelf at home; apparently my aunt bought it some time ago and finished it, so I decided I might as well read it.

The air was soft and warm; a light breeze belled out at the corners of the block and whisked bits of paper, dust, and cellophane from the trash cans. Down the block, framed against the late dazzle of the sunset, Stevie Prokop was waving to him: Come on, come on. Whatever the game was was less important than the getting there, being part of it. For a moment John just stood, poised to run, feeling the June warmth, the breeze, the sights and smells and sounds of the block run through him like fuel. Every building on the street-- the low, dignified brownstones, the blockish granite apartment buildings, even the dark stone church on the corner-- was familiar and loved. Each doorway was filled with possibilities. He felt like he was perched on a special moment.

"Johnny, hey, John!" Stevie called again.

John waved back, grinning. Another minute and he'd run after, join whatever the game was. Another minute. He breathed in deeply, feeling the air stir the inside of his nose and fill his lungs. It tasted of a thousand things: the dank, swampy smell of steam vents; the warm smell of sun on the black locust tree in front of his house; the perfume of the woman who'd just walked past; sun on brick and sun on asphalt; the river smell of the Hudson, and rain not far off. The air tasted like everything, forever.