Page 11 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“Is there anything you miss while living in Kenya for two months?” he asks, leisurely strolling beside me.
So many things. Reliable internet is one of them. Access to a quality salon where I can get a blowout. “Chocolate chip cookies,” I surprise him by saying.
Hart laughs.
“They have them, but they’re not the same,” I admit softly.
A food vendor has set up a cart on the opposite side of the street, and several people are gathered around.
“Would you like to try some traditional Kenyan street food?”
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s called bahjia. Slices of potato coated with flour and spices and deep fried.” I’ve had it before, many times in fact, and it wasn’t half-bad. I figured anything deep fried in boiling oil was most likely safe. With my busy schedule, I don’t have time to risk an intestinal event. I’m guessing neither does Hart.
He shrugs. “I’m game if you are.”
Maybe that’s all this is to him,a game. Maybe he’s a collector of experiences. Visit a slum?Check.Eat questionable food from a street vendor?Check.Flirt with an older woman?Check.
“One order? We can share?” he confirms.
I nod. “Perfect.”
He whips out his wallet before I can protest. The street vendor, not surprisingly, takes credit cards. Most business here is conducted on phones.
I check to be sure the bottled water he’s selling is still sealed. “Can I have one of these too?” I ask.
Hart nods. “Of course.”
The vendor is wearing a stained, greasy T-shirt, and he wastes no time swiping Hart’s black Amex card.
We each pick up a slice of fried potato. “Cheers,” I say, touching my slice to his.
“Cheers,” he repeats. He chews slowly. “Not bad.”
“Not bad,” I agree. They’re crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, flavorful and slightly salty.
Edmund trails behind us as we continue. I know firsthand that it’s easy to get lost here, so I’m constantly taking note of our surroundings. We stand beside a hut where a woman weaves strands of colorful fabric together, and I take a sip from my water.
“I think I’ve had enough,” Hart says, handing me the rest of the potatoes.
“Me too.”
I place the bag into the hands of a small child who’s sitting on a concrete block. I can feel Hart watching me, like he’s trying to figure me out.
We exchange a look, but no words. There’s something enchanting about him. About how he can have an intimate conversation on one of the streets of the biggest slums in Africa as though he isn’t rattled, only curious.
“Are you single?”
I sputter for a second, choking on my water. “I’m sorry?”
“Are. You. Single?” He repeats the words slowly, confidently, still watching me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.” He smiles.
“Twenty-five,” I repeat. When I was his age, I had recently quit a job I hated and was taking the summer to backpack across Italy. I had no idea what I wanted to do next. No idea who I was or where I was heading.
