I look at him too. I see a man who's just as scared as I am of becoming invisible. Or being seen as past it, on the far side of manhood, as being old. I reach across the table and take his hand (good hands, wide and blunt-fingered, the hands of a man who can fix things). I stroke his wrist, letting my fingers slide up that inner tendon and wonder whether it's his pulse that's thudding so hard under the skin, or mine. I think about all the things I've never done and all the things I'll never be, and I wonder if it's too late.

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