I am seventeen-thousand, six hundred and forty-eight years old. I'm standing outside of a little hut overlooking what used to be the Papayago Peninsula, quite a few millennia ago. It's uninhabited now, as the second evolution of humans after global warming fucked everything up haven't made it this far east yet on this continent.

For now, I'm happy that I have this little slice of paradise for our anniversary.

My husband is dozing in the hut. Neither of us needs sleep to sustain ourselves, but napping is a nice luxury.

Really, we don't need anything to sustain ourselves. Except for sex, maybe. You'd think I'd get bored fucking the same man for almost twenty thousand years, but gods have skills that you wouldn't believe.

"Still convinced you're in a coma?" Dexter asks, apparently having roused from his little siesta. He slides his arms around me from behind, cradling my body against his.

I tilt my head to the side to allow his lips access to my throat. "If I am," I say, "I don't ever want to wake up."