We sat on a retaining wall and ate something—I don’t remember what—and just talked. She was so friendly to sit and talk with. But then three guy... walked by and said, ‘White boy likes his milk chocolate.’ I remember it exactly. Cynthia just told me not to pay attention and sort of shrunk into herself.I had all the smoothness and sophistication of a porcupine, so I blurted out, ‘I’m sorry—you’re black, aren’t you?’ She just got up, and walked off quickly.”“Why’d you say that?” Joanne was getting. ‘I’m Marci,’ I said. ‘I’m Richard. Glad to meet you, Marci. How old are you, really?’ ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’ I said coyly, sipping my beer. ‘I didn’t ask if you were gay. You’re not, are you?’ ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’ I repeated, grinning now. He grinned in return. ‘Is every conversation with you like this?’ ‘Define ‘this’,’ I countered, grinning even wider. He sighed, making me laugh. I held out my hand. ‘Marci. Over 21. Maybe not gay. Maybe not as smart as I think I am.’ ‘Richard,’ he. More

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