Destined

He handed me the pictures, which I accepted with the beginnings of a shit-eating grin blooming on my face. That was right; even in the absence of objective truths onto which I could cling, I could always remember that there were people I cared about, and people who cared about me in return. This small truth — as certain to me as time’s passage and love’s sorrow — could serve as the wobbly foundation for the rest of my being. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tremblay. And I’m sorry. For everything.”

Mr. Tremblay nodded. “Bon courage, mon ami.”  Exeunt Mr. Tremblay and his aloof protégé, who flipped the bird to me as he left. I returned the favor, affirming our undying mutual understanding. The nurse followed them out, evidently quite dazed.