“Time travel isn’t safe,” I shouted after her. “There aren’t, like, emotional condoms that prevent sorrow ninety-eight point five percent of the time.” “I actually kind of like this about you, Bender,” she shouted from across the apartment. “That you and I don’t use emotional condoms. We just let the messy goo of who we are fly free, threatening to impregnate us with insecurity or infect us with the pain of true intimacy.
