“In a manner of speaking—you see, I made a deal to have an extra hundred years of happy, healthy, and fulfilled life.”
“So, you’re over a hundred years old?”
“Two-thousand.”
“Wait. Two-thousand? How?”
“The clock only runs when I’m happy, healthy, and fulfilled. One or two out of three don’t count.”
“My god…”
“Yours too? What a bunch of pricks. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had a few good years in the 1500s. Mostly if I’m happy or fulfilled, something makes my conscience guilty or my heart longing. So those two don’t stick together well…”
“And don’t get me started on healthy. The old geezer graced me with the ability to always eventually heal, but he didn’t protect me from getting sick. I’ve spent more time on various deathbeds than I have living the trifecta.”
“So… How many of the hundred years do you have left?”
“Not entirely sure, but as best I can tell, about fifty-one years.”
“Two thousand years, and you still haven’t used half your time?”
“It’s enough to make you less than happy and fulfilled, right?”
“Ugh.”
“Ita vero.”
