Greta Thunberg is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the UN climate summit after party. We exchange a few pleasantries. She asks what I do. I say I loved her on CNN She laughs. I get my drink.

“Well, see ya,” I say and walk away. I’ve got her attention now. How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Greta Thunberg? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.

Later, as the night’s dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.

“Got a spare?” she asks.

“What’s in it for me?” I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies. She smiles.

“Conversation with me, duh.”

I laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she protests.

“Nothing, nothing… It’s just… don’t you grow tired of the egos?”

“You get used to it,” she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.

“What would you do if you weren’t a climate change activist?” I ask.

“Teaching, I think.”

“And if I was your student, what would I be learning?”

“Discipline,” she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. “Where are you from?”

“Mexico” I say.

“Oh wow. That’s lovely.”

“It’s OK,” I admit. “Not everything is to my liking.”

“What could possibly be not to your liking in Mexico?” she inquires.

“I don’t like sand,” I tell her. “It’s coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere.”