April 16, 1984
a short story
“That’s quite tasty,” he said, carrying his beer into the main room and settling onto the geometric rug, crossing his legs at an angle to me.
“You don’t have to sit on the floor,” I motioned to the couch. “You can sit there if you’d like. I don’t mind or anything.”
“Sometimes I like this,” he said, a slight smile playing on his lips. He patted the rug. “It makes me feel more grounded.”
I caught myself staring for a moment too long and quickly looked down at my lap.
“Hey,” he began, his face taking on a look I hadn’t seen before. He seemed hesitant, like someone dipping their toes into water to check the temperature.
“I…” he started again, then paused. “Never mind,” he said, with a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
I let out a small laugh. “You can’t say ‘never mind’ now; you’ve got my attention. Ask me.”
“Well, I’m wondering,” he began, “do you live in this house all by yourself? Not that I’m trying to sound creepy or anything,” he added quickly, shaking his head.
“I guess I’m just a little bit curious about you. I wonder who you are outside of our lessons,” he admitted, his face flushing in that dramatic way that white people’s faces do sometimes.
