Sunday sunlight. Sprinklers ticking like broken clocks. The grass is damp and humming with insect static. She climbs on top of him — brittle bones grinding like old gears, skin freckled with liver spots and old war stories. A parody of youth, a flashback in a flesh suit. He stares up, dazed — maybe high, maybe just young — and watches as history rides him like a dying machine. Her breath smells like gin and menthols, and she moans in Latin, or maybe it’s just a hymn she half-remembers from a funeral. The neighbors keep their curtains closed. Somewhere a dog barks. Somewhere a radio plays Perry Como. This is not love. This is not even lust. This is entropy with lipstick.