What’s a moment when a stranger completely restored your faith in people?
I met a stranger recently.
He looked familiar in the way abandoned buildings sometimes do.
Same architecture.
Different weather.
He looked tired.
Not sleepy tired.
The other kind.
The kind you get from running hard enough that nobody notices you’re running from anything.
We didn’t talk.
I just stood there looking at him.
And for reasons I can’t completely explain, I felt an enormous amount of compassion for this poor bastard.
He’d clearly made some mistakes.
Stayed too long at a few fires.
Carried things that should’ve been put down miles ago.
Kept driving after several important parts of the vehicle had begun making expensive noises.
But there he was.
Still upright.
Still breathing.
Still apparently expected somewhere.
I don’t know if he restored my faith in humanity.
That seems like a lot to ask of anybody before coffee.
But I liked him.
And that felt like something.
Then the stranger reached for my toothbrush.
Which was unsettling.
But fair.
We’d met before.
