Clutching my black leather-bound journal, I sat in the chair nearest the door.
Cross-legged
Nervous
Hungry
I began to talk.
It was Tuesday. This was what they termed my "tutorial." A young man, not more than 25, surely, sat opposite me. We met downstairs a few minutes before, as we had planned, in the second floor hallway where my bedroom was situated. His curly brown hair bounced and waved at me as he led the way. I hadn't realized there was even a door at the end of the hall, until Dave opened it. Each stair creaked a fresh tone as I followed him up two short flights of stairs and into his apartment's living room. What was with his shoes? He seemed about my height, but with the feet of a pro-basketball player. He reminded me of a capital "L."
The electric overhead light wasn't bright enough, but that didn't matter. The door out onto his balcony, tucked between two large windows, lit up our meeting with possibility. His manner was altogether gentle and welcoming as if to say, "It's safe here." So, nestled in his kind demeanor, I spoke of Kenya.
