We share snacks and watch the sunset, talking about everything and nothing, taking in the sprawling scene of humanity. Laughter, shouting, the drone of hundreds of conversations. The sound all blends together into a background of white noise.

“I like being around you because I can just be myself,” he explains. “You’re easy to talk to. I haven’t had a close friend in a long time, never had one in this city. You’re also just really fun to be around. I love hearing you laughing while riding on the trail behind me.”

We figured it out, whatever happened when I got too high. He accepted responsibility for his part and apologized, and I did the same for my part. We fell back into our easy way of relating, that evening just a slip, a hiccup in time.

“You just let me know if you ever want to try again,” he offers.

“Maybe someday I’ll try having way less,” I say, “But I enjoy being chatty so probably not for a while.”

We ride and the owls float above us on the trails and frogs croak in the lake. We stay out too late, and I worry about him getting in trouble, but it's so hard to say goodbye.