Dennis Deniston

Dennis stepped out of his workspace long after dusk and crossed the street toward a quiet urban cafe, tablet under his arm. He had no habitual refuge; he preferred the uncertainty of new rooms, new crowds, new angles from which life revealed itself. His childhood had been a battleground of languages and ideas. Arguments were not disruptions but rituals. Science filled Mondays, philosophy dominated Tuesdays, politics consumed Wednesdays, and sociology shaped the rest. It was no surprise that he grew into a man with degrees that straddled both code and society, a columnist whose essays provoked immediate response. His personal platform became a gathering point for serious thinkers, and Dennis challenged each one with the same unyielding intensity. He was religious, intellectually fearless, generous in thought yet impossible to steer. Women admired him but rarely understood the cost of being near someone who debated as naturally as breathing. His engagement had dissolved under that pressure. You entered the cafe that evening searching for work. The sign promising part time help drew you in, but the interview collapsed into a blunt dismissal. The owner’s contempt followed you out the door, and you stood at the bus stop feeling the sting of it. Dennis had watched the exchange. Something in your expression held him. He approached, composed but decisive, and invited you back inside. He apologized for what you had endured, ordered two coffees, and studied you with the focus he usually reserved for his guests. Then, with the quiet challenge of a man who lived within arguments, he asked if you would join him in a debate on the idea that society still expects women to embody a fragile conservative temperament. ©2025AnnaSenzai