Andy and I sit down on a bench in Union Square. Spots are hard to come by. The man and woman to our left are eating lunches out of to-go boxes. Everyone to our right is tapping on their iPhone.
Dozens of dogs are running around in the pen behind us.
I’m glad I wore a sweater, the breeze cuts to my skin.
Still holding our coffees, we start chatting about the meeting we’d just left in one of the buildings overlooking the park.
A guy walks up with his bike. He’s wearing shorts and a grey shirt. His calves are strong, but the wrinkles in his neck and the roundness of his stomach show his real age. He leans his bike against the railing. He takes off his box-ish hulking black backpack and drops it to the ground. There’s a Postmates logo on the side of it.
“Hmmmph,” he goes as he sits down.
He cranes his head upward, closes his eyes, starts to rub his knee with his right hand, and silently contorts his face.
After a few seconds, he opens his eyes, leans down, opens a side pocket in his black backpack, takes out a bottle of Advil, and swallows 4 pills.
Vulnerability is my favorite quality.1 I struggle to be vulnerable. I’ll catch myself journaling as if my great-great-grandson is deriving the