Sharp pain behind my right eye. Throbbing brain. A vortex of omnipresent pain. A doorbell chimed vaguely in the background. A customer appeared.
Black.
Queer.
Immigrant.
That trifecta, people thought, was the worst possible hand, he said. But he identified privilege in the knowledge that he could chart his own path, could see a future for himself.
Those things, yes. But it’s the joy, too, I said. It radiated out, a glow-up for everything around him.
Queer.
Black.
Immigrant.
Joyful.
Pure Light.
When he left, my headache was gone.