I make a loud game-show-buzzer noise. "I'm sorry," I say, "we don't recognize 'fine' as an acceptable answer. We see it as a conversational cop-out. So please, try again." Tony sighs again, but not that heavily. He knows he's been snagged. If I ever say "fine" to him, he reacts the same way. "I've actually been thinking about life lately, and this one image keeps coming to me," he says. "Do you know when you cross against traffic? You look down the street and see a car coming, but you know you can get across before it gets to you. So even though there's a DON'T WALK sign, you cross anyway. And there's always a split second when you turn and see that car coming, and you know that if you don't continue moving, it will all be over. That's how I feel a lot of the" time. I know I'll make it across. I always make it across. But the car is always there, and I always stop to watch it coming." He gives me a low smile. "You know, sometimes I wish I had your life. But I'm sure I wouldn't be much good at it." "I'm not that great at it myself." "You get by" "So do you." I try.
