Cortado Time
He could manage most emotions well enough to function. But anger. There wasn't much he could do about that. He felt a lot like Achilles. Perhaps that's why he often found himself at expensive cafés, nursing bitter cortados, reading The Iliad . He remembered wanting to play in the NBA. He spent hours as far back as he could remember sinking buckets from all angles of the basketball court. He was no doubt the most skilled individual player in his school, but that's where it stopped. Dexter, the poor bastard, had never developed team-player skills. His parents had offered to put him in basketball leagues, but he didn't like being called a ball-hog (which he was) or working with others. On the rare occasion that he did join a pickup game, he felt a general confusion. He had no passing, rebounding, or stealing abilities. He'd never run plays or set picks or developed that intuitive sense that comes with regular, team practice. So while all admired him, none wanted him o...