The evening draws to an end.
People are inebriated, becoming sentimental, but no one seems to have found any answers.
There’s Harold, drinking shandy. How we would taunt him for his faith back in the day! We had no need for such a crutch, his church, his Christ.
Yet everyone here, bar him, seems unmoored, merely floundering onward, towards what?
I envy his certainty, standing like a lighthouse amidst a stormy sea.
Seeming to sense my existential despair, he turns.
He holds my gaze with righteous, forgiving eyes.