We sit by the side of the road and watch the girls across the street selling lemonade, and talk about astrology. The girls are wearing short skirts and tight white tops, and the one in the middle is much prettier than me, and I think you notice. I know I do. You don’t believe in astrology. You want to be an astronaut, and think the stars are just gas and dust and science. You’ve grown out of dreaming, at least of my kind of stars. I think you might dream about pretty girls in short skirts and tight white tops now.