I saw this old couple—attractive, well-groomed, but old, in their eighties—sitting down at Starbucks the other afternoon. I couldn’t help but stare at them; I was intrigued by their oldness, their presence, as old people, at Starbucks. I suddenly felt like it would be okay to go up to them and converse about their oldness. I would ask them if they look at each other and say, can you believe how old we are? we were once young, and now we are old. I imagined them naked. I was curious if coffee tasted any different once you got old, or if it was pretty much the same pleasure it had always been. There was a muffin on their table, and he was reading the paper; he was dressed up, wearing a jacket and tie, as old(er) gentlemen often do. I imagined Jason old, and wondered if, even though he is not this way now, he would wear a jacket and tie once he got really old, and I hoped not because I don’t think I would find that attractive. I hoped he would still wear his brown corduroy shirt with the buttondown snaps, and his cute form-fitting sweaters, particularly the one with the stripes that I like.