Postcards From The Edge

We were talking over a cup of that delicious, sweet, milky Burmese tea, but I couldn’t enjoy my drink, looking at his face was hard. One of his eyeballs was missing and his teeth were rotten—a memento of his time in prison. Like too many others, he had been incarcerated for taking part in a peaceful protest against the military junta’s blatant abuses on their basic human rights. Talking to me in public was dangerous. He told me that spies were everywhere, probably even in this very coffee shop. We had to move to a safer place.