“What’s the matter? Did you hurt your leg or something?” he asks. “No, I have Cerebral Palsy,” I answer.
I met him in a coffee shop. Not even an original one; it’s the chain everyone goes to on a lazy Saturday. I went that day to study in the college town over from mine, to finish the mountain of work due the following week. Already a sophomore, I had perfected the art of taking an hour to throw on frayed jeans, a crew-neck tee, and makeup. My hair was usually in a messy ponytail because of the perpetual rain. It was February.