"Cleopatra," he said after a while. "What?" "Cleopatra saw the same sunset. Ain't that crazy? Like everybody who was ever alive only seen one sun." He gestured to indicate the whole town, even though we were the only people there far as the eye could see. "No wonder people used to think it was god himself." "Said who?" "People." He chewed his lip for a moment. "Sometimes I wanna just go that way forever." He pointed his chin beyond the sycamores. "Like just psssh." I studied his arm propped behind him, the thin, flowing muscles, field-toned and burger-fed, shifting as he talked. I flung the last rind from the grapefruit I was peeling off the roof. What about our skeletons, I wanted to ask, how do we get away from them-but thought better of it. "It must suck to be the sun, though," I said, handing him a pink half. He put the whole half in his mouth. "Hob bob?" "Finish chewing you animal." He rolled back his eyes and bobbled his head playfully, as if possessed, the clear juice dripping down his chin, his neck, the indent under his Adam's apple, no larger than a thumbprint, glistening. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. "How come?" he repeated, serious. "Cause you never see yourself if you're the sun. You don't even know where you are in the sky." I placed a wedge on my tongue, letting the acid sting the place where I'd bit the inside of my cheek all week for no reason. He looked at me thoughtfully, turned the idea in his head, his lips wet with juice. "Like you don't even know if you're round or square or even if you're ugly or not," I continued. I wanted it to sound important, urgent-but had no idea if I believed it. "Like you can only see what you do to the earth, the colors and stuff, but not who you are." I glanced at him. He picked at a hole in his grass-stained white Vans. His nail scraped at the leather in the sneaker, the hole widening. I hadn't noticed, until then, the crickets chirping. The day dimmed around us. Trevor said, "I think it sucks to be the sun 'cause he's on fire."