I have to stay alive until 2061.  I promised him.  I promised myself.  I'll be 81 and he'll be older, but not by much.  For now, we'll bury a time capsule with memories of our youth.  In Prospect Park.  And make a pact to marry if we are alone and lonely octogenarians.  Canoli in Carrol Gardens, to celebrate.  Life.  Love.  Nearly 50 years of making sure that we're alive. Comets.

We'll sell the movie rights, and put the profits in a trust to give to animal rescue organizations.  November's Ison, 2061's Halley's.  And in two weeks he'll go to Montreal and I'll go to Paris.  Until then we'll practice our French, but only learn to say "I am a stupid American, give me beer."  Incorrectly out of laziness. 

This kale salad needs beets.  One earplug in my pocket and one finger in my ear.  He found the new Devendra album on vinyl and I am drinking seltzer out of a mason jar and freezing my forearms and ankles with poor wardrobe decisions.

It's only 1pm.  I am not your hombre.  You are not my mademoiselle.