The person sitting in front of me—this person who is enjoying a luke-warm cup of Earl Grey (with a generous squirt of honey, but passing on the lemon wedge), while our barista sets down a marbled sliced of cheesecake—isn’t what I imagined. Though, I can’t say what I imagined. Or who, for that matter. “Expecting …

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The man who sits across from me isn’t what I expected. The stories depict him as towering; the man before me cannot be any taller than five-foot-one. He smiles. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. His voice isn’t what I expected, either. It’s not booming. Not resonating through my ears. Instead, it’s gentle. Think …

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