Jay and I are essentially the same person. There are differences, but they're random; they happened because of some quantum collapse of a wave function, some modal shift in a lotto ticket. For example, I'm a right libertarian, and he's a left libertarian, which only means that he hates Republicans and Democrats but in a pinch will vote for a Democrat and I hate Republicans and Democrats, but in a pinch--if I voted--I'd vote for a Republican.
Also, the human population of the world divides itself into two pertinent groups. Some people have trouble falling asleep, and some people have trouble staying awake. I, of the former, listened to Jay, of the latter, hiccup after his eyes had closed during the movie we were watching.
And I tell you that tonight, somewhere, in some pocket of the human experience, genocides are indeed occurring. Lovers fated to be together are dying alone. Somewhere, the family pet has been run down by a careless driver who can't appreciate the enormity of his sin.
But, nevertheless, it's impossible not to smile, watching a movie and listening to my friend, now dreaming on the couch, his diaphragm periodically spasming, sounding high notes every ten seconds, his iPhone on his chest. I snap a picture, watch more of the movie and laugh by myself, then tousle his hair and say I'm taking off. He rumbles awake and says he's going to bed.
On the way home, the moon isn't whole, which would be perfect, and it isn't a sliver, which would be pathetic, but fat and pregnant with light. Sprinklers are working their shiny wet forcefields over the DC parks. A cab driver with an African accent is friendly as we swim through lights to Pentagon City.
And life is something to be cherished--isn't it always?