We lay in a park on a towel which reminds me of disco. We’re surrounded by bikes, sandwiches and sunblock. He is reading a smarter level of literature, while I sit with the safety of a NY Times best seller. There are people playing softball, churchgoers kneeling on the lawn, dogs running, there are layers and loungers, there is us and them. An hour goes by without a word exchanged by either one of us.
“Define empathy?”
“It’s the ability to understand another’s situation, or feelings.”
“How about apathy?”
“The inability to do so.”
“Sympathy?”
“To actually understand another’s situation or feelings. Relate to.”
“Ah. Ok. Thanks. Sorry to bug you.”
“No bug.”
This is what I love about him. I realize He enjoys and is willing to answer nearly everything I ask him. And he does so without a sigh or a hint of annoyance to the interruption. He does so without judgement. It’s as if he’s excited (almost). And we sit in silence again, absorbing words written by two people we don’t know and never will. And we understand.
It occurs to me while lying in a park on a blanket purchased for 11 bucks at the local Polish five and dime, that I am experiencing the now of one of those times created better during the retrospect, the time where you say to someone else “that was a great time. I wish I could go back. I was happy then.”
Mihow 
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