I expected him to leave.
Instead, he pushed himself off the wall and walked to the front.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
He stood there silently for so long that people began to shift in their seats.
Then he spoke.
His voice was low.
Rough.
Not polished.
Not practiced.
“I don’t like talking.”
A few people smiled.
He looked down at his hands.
“I pick up trash. I fix things when folks ask. I take care of my mama and my niece when I can. That’s my life.”
He paused.
“I know what I look like.”
Nobody moved.
“I know people cross streets. Lock doors. Pull kids closer. I see it.”
His voice did not sound angry.
That made it hurt worse.
“I don’t blame everybody. World can be dangerous. Folks get scared.”
He touched the scar on his neck without seeming to realize it.
