A High-Five, Like a Dream, Deferred

Today, coming back to the office with some lunch, a homeless man offers me a friendly high-five; I start to respond with the expected, but then hesitate and lower my hand. No high-five was consummated and he starts chastising me for not wanting to touch his hand.

I protest something feeble about being in a hurry. Like I’m some sort of high-powered executive single mother CEO who’s always just too busy to high-five everyone. But I’m not, and feel bad. Because he was right, right about the touching thing.

Lunch was an uneaten sandwich.