This is the sixth story in this summer’s online Flash Fiction series. Read the entire series, and our Flash Fiction from previous years, here .

Could be half my life, I said, could be all of it. Could be a third, Gabby said, raising a glass of a chilled orange wine the server had described as “funky.” Evenings in Berkeley condescended to words like “funky,” the wealthy down from the hills for a plate of gnocchi and delicata squash, shimmering headlights across the rain-streaked window. I had little interest in ninety-nine, but didn’t say so. Over and again that week, we’d talked about time—types of, ways to measure and experience, the colonial origins of time systems—and, one night, we became unspeakably aroused at the distinction between time as a universal fact and time as contained b

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