I see myself when I was younger, and I hate him. Before those long wavy red locks turned gray. Before the smug smile of young knowledge was replaced by a smile to mask the incessant aches and pains. Before my passionate eyes faded to something with less twinkle and more haunting. Before the confidence of a stale white T made way for the sweater vest.

He sits on the bench across the park, legs across the seat, airpods in, and reading Kafka or Nietzsche. His arrogance is second to none because he knows everyone who glances at him views him with disdain. If only I had changed sooner.

I pull an apple from my small paper bag, take a bite, and wash it down with some good old fashioned water. Of course, the hate is mutual. I represent everything he strives for, but because I made it and he has not, he hates me: Me, in my sweater despite the fact that it will pass 75 degrees before long and keep climbing. Me, because I am retiring at a respectable age with respectable awards to my name. Me, because I am old and will soon be in his way.

In truth, the only difference between us is time, I ponder. But the pondering does not make my despair lessen. I should remember what it was like before all my experience and wisdom and hard work, shouldn’t I? I should remember the passionate light that I nourished with words that teeter-tottered between nonsense and rebellion, shouldn’t I? I should remember how I hated the way people judged me while I was judging them right back, shouldn’t I? I should be the bridge.

But I can’t. The fool that I was then wouldn’t want to listen to an old fogey like me. His fight and his justified anger at the world is not the same as mine was. Different times. And we are different men. That is what time does. You don’t truly realize how you have changed over the years until you look yourself in the face and realize: That’s not me anymore, is it?

I finish my apple with an undignified slurp of the last bite that I hope no-one sees. I toss the core into the nearby bin and wipe my lips and fingers with a napkin. Then with one last sip of water, I turn to leave. But the younger me has crossed the distance between us and stands before his future self.

He greets me with a bro’s chin-up and extends his hand. I stare at it, perplexed. What does this mean? Is he mocking me? He knows how I judged him, and now he has appeared to prove that he is the better man? Despite looking like a university hippy, he believes he is on the same playing field as I am. His sheepish smile suggests that it is not too late to bridge the divide between us, but he is wrong.

He seems to understand my hesitation, slips his hands into his pockets, and glances up at the sky in embarrassment. Finally he speaks, “Do you think the hate is real? Or are we both projecting on each other?”

I blink at him, at the wonderment in his clever eyes, and I realize I have a choice. I can disagree with him and reject him, prove him wrong, and myself right. Or I can agree with him, and prove myself wrong after all these years.

I turn to leave. If I agree with him, that means I have been failing to do my part for over forty years, and that would make him the better man. And if he knows he is the better man – truly knows – then he will never listen to me. Why would he? I am old, and this is the last thing I have to hold onto: the assurance that it was always hopeless to try. This is the way of things. The young and strong will replace the old and proud, and before too long, become them. And it will repeat. We can’t…

“Wait, sir, please,” the man pleads and takes a step as if to cut me off. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

“What would that change?” I demand, annoyed at his brashness and at my own incompetence.

“The same thing as it would have changed forty years ago: one person at a time.” He extends his hand for another try.

I hesitate again. His eyes and hand are sincere, so I steal my resolve. “Alright, but we’ll start by agreeing that this was my idea,” I say. Our smile bounces between laughter and satisfaction, “Deal.”