“We could die tomorrow," I whispered back. "I want to be with you tonight. I don't want to have any regrets, when it comes to us. So, yes, I'm sure. I love you, Ash.”

“Are you sure?" His voice was barely a whisper, a ghost in the dark.I nodded, tracing my fingers down his cheek, marveling as he closed his eyes. "We could die tomorrow," I whispered back. "I want to be with you tonight. I don't want to have any regrets, when it comes to us. So, yes, I'm sure. I love you, Ash.”

“I don't have any regrets, really, except that one. I wanted to write about you, about us, really. Do you know what I mean? I wanted to write about everything, the life we're having and the lives we might have had. I wanted to write about all the ways we might have died.”

“Patience, grasshopper," I counseled. "You don't want to seem overeager.""Right, that's why I said tomorrow," he said. "I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait all night and much of tomorrow.”

“I love you Utanapishtim. Ziasudra. And if I die tonight, my only regret will be that we didn't have more time together. And if I die a thousand years from now, my only regret will be exactly the same.I love you, I love you. I love you”

“May I see you again?" he asked. There was an endearing nervousness in his voice. I smiled. "Sure.""Tomorrow?" he asked."Patience, grasshopper," I counseled. "You don't want to seem overeager. "Right, that's why I said tomorrow," he said. "I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait all night and much of tomorrow." I rolled my eyes. "I'm serious," he said. "You don't even know me," I said. I grabbed the book from the center console. "How about I call you when I finish this?""But you don't even have my phone number," he said."I strongly suspect you wrote it in this book." He broke out into that goofy smile. "And you say we don't know each other.”