He awoke to dead grey light.

“What year is it,” he asked, pawing the cheap nightstand for cigarettes.

His bedmate stirred. “1963.”

“Again?”

“It’s always 1963, baby.”

“I suppose.” He watched blue smoke pool on the ceiling.

“It’s cold,” he said, pulling the yellowed sheets to his chin. “Why is it always cold?”

“The Second Law of Thermodynamics, of course. Have you forgotten?”

He turned to look at the person next to him. “You,” he said.

“Yes.”