Hope. He chose hope. "Morning, Rosie." He leaned down and kissed her as if it hadn't been half a decade since he could rely on her appearing in his bed. "So you're a century and some change, and you still dye your hair. I don't blame you. I figure when I'm old and gray I'll have to go out and buy the dye. Or maybe I'll let myself go silver, you know. Classy. Sean Connery pulls it off, and bitches love Sean Connery."
Before saying, "bitches," Gar shapeshifted into a dog. It was an old joke, but a classic. He nudged her with his muzzle. "Bitches, see. Do bitches still love Sean Connery in your distant, presumably dystopian future?"