Zoe moved into my apartment the day after we met. (She didn’t have much stuff to unpack – all she had was a couple of little boxes filled with toiletry things, a few random items of food scrounged from a cupboard, a DVD of the remake of Green Lantern (even shittier than the original, I’m afraid), some chopsticks, a holo-iPad, and a certain phallicly-shaped item that some women use for— Oh, never mind. Zoe’s gesturing for me to stop right there…and now she’s flipping me the bird. Charming.)

We then spent the next thirteen years watching the world evolve before our eyes (sort of like a slowed-down Koyaanisqatsi ).
A president we’d had for three terms stepped down after revelations about illegal black ops aimed at civilians.
The woman who murdered her husband on the moon committed suicide.
Four more new planets were discovered.
An earthquake happened in the UK.
Some of our favourite celebrities died inexplicably.

And so on and on and on, until 2042.

Ah, yes.
2042.
The year that Zoe stopped Time…