We met in the library lobby outside the Friends store. “Bless you,” he said, “for all of your hair. It’s beautiful. It shows you are full of spirit.”
He told me his name. Asked me mine. Said he still plays the drums. He’s sixty-seven. Gray stubble on his face. Wearing second-hand clothes.
“Bless you,” he said again, clasping my hand and looking into my eyes, “for still being here with us, alive in the world. I’m so glad we met.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“We’ll meet again, I’m sure. Yes... this is no accident.”
He left the library. I entered the store.