Harold

Part 2 of yesterday's story is just not coming together. It reads weird. So you get this instead. I'll finish this series (since it's already written) and then give you Part 2 of The People Upstairs on Thurs.

Last week, I sent an email to the Black men of New York. I asked people to forward it around to reach as many folk as possible. Such was the case that the email landed in the Inbox of a man I once adored, Harold.

The morning after the call for men hit the city, an email from Harold reached my Inbox. ''Hello,'' it read. ''How are you? I tried to contact you after you left, but the message was returned. Why didn't you keep in touch? Give me a reason I can't take you to dinner.''

I stared at the screen and read the message again. Keep in touch? Dinner? I screw up my face. Why?

 

Far and long ago, I began a career in another field. Harold worked for the same company--different division, different floor. When I took the job, I was so focused on impressing my boss that I barely noticed Harold when he came by to fix the office equipment.

Four months into the new gig, I was all dressed up with somewhere to go and headed out of the office. I was in the hallway when I heard a man say, ''Wow, D, you look nice today.'' Caught off guard, I looked back to identify the baritone voiced speaker with just a hint of a West Indian accent. My eyes met his and I smiled. He smiled wider. Such teeth! Such lips! Immediately, I fell a little bit in love.

 

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