The stars are pushing through the gloaming like light through pin-pricked pink paper. We’re sharing a cup of coffee on your mother’s second-story porch and discussing our shared wish of piloting the Mars Rover while drunk. You insist it has to be on absinthe though I’m more of a bourbon person. The coffee here is sufficient, good even, and the chatter, and the idea of negative senescence, which means there is hope for, if not human immortality, humans playing chess for millennia, which is better for you, in the grand scheme, though I’m sure we’d have our share of draws after you’d mastered crushing my bishops. I tell you I want to be in a place where we can have all the windows open all the time, and the blinds up, and I can strut around naked with my coffee and sunglasses, secretly eyeing attractive neighbors eyeing me as they too strut, albeit semi-nude, on their cut and simple lawns. You tell me this is a terrible idea. You tell me to grow up, which makes me want to even less.