“Yeah. I remember I was about nine. We were at the park and some kid called me the N-word. My mom flipped. The parents said they were sorry, and that they didn’t know where their kid heard the word.

“When we got home, I asked if all white people were racist. She went into the cabinet in the kitchen and took out a bottle of cooking oil. She held it up. ‘This is racism,’ she said. And then she poured it all over my hands. She said in the past, white people where dripping with vile, racist thoughts and actions.

“Today, most white people aren’t like that. They’ve cleaned it up.” And then she wiped off all the oil and told me to touch whatever I wanted around the house. So I did. And when we retraced my steps, I realized that while my hands looked clean, everything I touched had a smudge, some lingering oil imprint. My mom said, ‘That’s racism. It touches everything.’ ”

“That’s a dope way to put it,” he says.

“I guess, but I was looking for comforting words, not a warning. Never mind that—tell me more about your grandmother. She sounds cool as hell. You said she used to watch TV with you. Did she pass away?”

“Nah, she’s in a nursing home in Queens. My uncle and I go see her a few times a month. Yo, they get busy in them old nursing homes! One time I was feeling bad ’cause we hadn’t gone to see her in a while, so I went, like, three times in one week. That lady texted me and was like, ‘Boy, you can’t be stop’n by every day. I got things going on.’ ”

“What kind of things?”

“That’s just what I asked. She texted me back a taco and a hot dog!”

I burst out laughing, and the hot chocolate almost comes out of my nose.

“It freaked me the hell out. So now, when I’m going over there, I give her, like, a three-day heads-up.”

“Just because she old don’t mean she can’t get it in,” I joke. We share a laugh, and he shivers at the awful memory of his grandma’s text. “So, is making hot chocolate part of your routine to get girls?” I ask as he sits on the stool beside me.

“I only make this for my nana. She can’t use the stove anymore, so I make her a pot and bring it over. I’ve never made it for another girl. And I never bring anyone here after hours. This is the place I go and ponder life’s big questions.”

“Like what?”

“You know, deep stuff,” he replies, making a goofy face. I laugh as his eyes sparkle. He bites his lower lip and makes my stomach dip.