He has another coffee in his right hand and is sitting rather comfortably on a park bench. He loves to watch the ducks and geese when the weather outside is fine.
"You can't live your life worrying out it," he said quite directly. She was on the ground cross-legged, picking at the nail beds on her right hand.
She needed to quit doing that someday. Some childhood habits die hard.
And leave scars.
"You have wounded yourself badly," he commented dryly.
"I can't seem to stop. I know it's a terrible, ugly habit," she responded. "My mother says..."
"You're too old for it - for all of it," he reminded.
In that moment, she couldn't decide if he was talking about her, her mother, her mutilated fingertips or hell, life in general. She stared at him. He had a nice smile.
"You're never going to know everything," he told her. "You have to believe me. You have to believe him too. He tells you what he knows. You should believe her too."
"But," she began...
"That was almost ten years ago. I promise you, that's not what will happen to you again. After all, I should know."
She had nothing to say to this. How does one really argue with God anyway? Technically, you can't. He always wins.
"This coffee is delicious," he remarked.
They never spoke of her fingers again.
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