Bubba came home from yoga class one day; hot-yoga, something I’m sure was created by sadists.
“There was a skinhead in class today,” Bubba said. “I haven’t seen him before. He was at the front, where experienced practitioners usually stand. I looked at him—pale skin, lack of tone, racist tattoos—and shook my head. A ‘poser.’ There just to raise hackles.”
Bubba’s dislike and disapproval of the guy was evident. I was all-in with him.
“As I stretched and watched,” Bubba continued, “another classmate approached skinhead and asked, ‘how’s your chemo going, dude?’”
One word. It was just one word.
Yet it drained the room of air. And sent the internal characters scrambling to regain their lost footing.