I stare at him. And stare at him. And stare a little more, open-mouthed. I stare at this man who is six four and two hundred pounds of muscle and just vented to me for five minutes about the fact that space is a scary place. God. Oh, God. I think I like him. “There’s one single format in which space is tolerable,” he says. “Which is?” “Star Wars movies.” Oh, God. I jump out of my seat, grab his hand, and pull him out of the bar. He follows without resisting. “Bee? Where are we—?” I don’t bother looking back. “To my hotel room. To watch The Empire Strikes Back.”
