He sat in the tiny office, a small rented room in the Convent school. He was slim, but everyone was slim. His soft brown eyes sat unblinking in an oval face covered by metal rimmed glasses. A thin mustache grew above his mouth that smiled shyly as I opened the door and caught him there. He stood then, bowed slightly and reached his forearm across the desk. I pressed my own forearm against his in return; the way of greeting between a man and woman, unfamiliar and of different races. You greeted everyone here. Everyone was precious.
He wore dark slacks. His poly blend dress shirt hung on his bony frame under a beige Members’ Only jacket. All the men’s shirts here reminded me of the ones my Grandpa wore. He reached into his pocket and brought out a folded paper.
“Steve sent me here,” he spoke quietly, handing me the note holding his left arm across his chest, clasping his right wrist with the opposite hand. Like the symbolic greeting, this way of offering an item conveyed deference.
I smiled and took the paper. “Of course Steve sent him,” I thought and then jumped two feet when the CB radio on the bookshelf squelched. “Jesus,” as I righted myself, rolled my eyes in memory of where I actually was (a Convent), and picked up the handset to click my response.
