A Radiant Sunday
My friend parallel parked at a park with no name in his white, 2004 Mustang. It was Sunday, it was sunny, and we had ordered authentic Honduran food nearby. Cute girls in sundresses passed by, and we felt like kings at a picnic, sprawled out on the grass, soaking in sunlight. "I'm sorry I called you a pussy last night," he said. "And I'm sorry I was so hard on you," I replied. We both smiled as we chowed into our baleadas. We'd had a bit too much to drink the night before and had been a bit too honest with each other. But there's nothing worse than a friendship without honesty. I've had too many of those—the ones where I have to walk on eggshells with every word I say, hoping not to trigger an alarm. But as with everything, even honesty, moderation is key. I tend to go big or go home and see honesty as some absolute necessity. Lots of movies reflect on this and help question the assumption that honesty is always good. I don't remember the ...