Crossing

I'm curled up in an "ocean-view recliner" with a yellow blanket snuggled over my jeans, reading Burning Chrome. Half-listening to the man wheezing as he crosses the room to sit near me. "I suppose you'll never get old," he says, when he catches his breath. He smiles when I tell him "Probably." Tells me he's 84. I'm watching the night get deeper, feeling the thump of distance as the sea disappears beneath us. Wondering if my generation will be able to choose to live forever.