I expect our fresh relationship to end. Part of me believes he will despise me by the close of this evening, abruptly, and I will never see him again. We will no longer be friends. But this doesn’t happen. He hugs me after we talk for an hour…two hours…three hours.
He looks me square in the eyes and holds out his hand. “Shake it,” he says.
Awkwardly, I do. His palm and fingers are warm and a touch sweaty.
“Congratulations, Tim. You’re surviving. Just like the rest of us on this planet. We’re not robots. We’re not angels. We do a few good things, and just as many bad things. You’re human and existing. You’re living on the living planet. Can you do anything more? I think not.”
Something strangely cleansing happens in my chest and arms and my legs. Excitement takes over my systems (endocr
