"There's no way I'll live that long."

"Why not? Sad people live a long time, when they want to, seems like."

"What?"

The moon started sinking, unnoticed.

"Do you ever feel invisible?" Kip asked.

"No. I can always see myself. How could I be invisible?" The corners of her mouth danced upward. Lips met, once, twice, parted, three times.

"Do you think up these answers beforehand?"

"Do you think up these questions beforehand?"

Nervous giggle.

"You know what your last words will be?"

"I don't. And neither do you, chick."

"Yes, I do."

Pause, cue lips, once, twice, pause, nervous giggle.

"Your last words'll be, 'Am I invisible, yet?'"

Something rustled beyond the fence. A family of rabbits had bedded down peacefully for the night. They'd been found by something, and so they rustled.

"And the answer'll be, 'No.'"

He found that hard to believe, but then he smelled the grass, the breeze, the skin; felt the touch, the lips, the leaves; heard the rustling, the breathing, the soft disconnection; saw the bulb, saw the dirt, saw the spaces in between the atoms; tasted her, only her, forever her; forgot.

Kip Pilgrim never remembered what she'd said until the day he turned 106.