I used to know an elderly man named Joe. He lived on the ground floor of my apartment building. If he caught me in the hallway, he inevitably shook my hand and tried to slip me a twenty dollar bill. I protested, but he always insisted that I use the money to take a pretty girl out sometime.
We talked then. I could barely hear him. Joe told me, every time, how he had survived the Allied landing at Normandy and how he was the only one left of his brothers and sisters. He told me about the angel who always sat on his right shoulder and how she had always kept him safe.
He took my hand and set it on his shoulder and we stood there in the hallway like that until I excused myself.
Joe never asked me if I could feel his angel or anything. He wasn't crazy.
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