Author: Kemo Sabe

His short dreadlocks fell on either side of his face giving the impression that he was brisk, risqué – just the right amount of dangerous. He was talking on the phone looking at his watch. His face contorted perhaps from some form of irritation, he must have been waiting for someone who was running late. He hung up and sat down at the bar, three stools away from me and beckoned the bartender. Something about him made me instinctively look at the overhead mirror to check that everything was in place. I crossed my legs. The bartender poured him a…

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