A family of four cycles toward us, each with a phone mounted to their handlebars. They're chasing a Meowth. I search the kids' eyes in the seconds it takes them to whiz past. They don't hate wearing helmets. "Geeks," I say, and we laugh at their expense. It makes me maybe want kids, though.
We're watching Mamma Mia! on the rugby field's jumbotron. The dying sun glints off two hundred phones, then two hundred phones compete with the jumbotron in the dark. People around us hum along to "Super Trouper." A couple makes out after the boyfriend catches her a Tangela. I've decided in retrospect that this is terribly romantic. I've decided it was a missed opportunity on your part.
We tour the graveyard with a lead on a Scyther. I feel bad about this, but Scyther is a big deal. We make sure not to step on any plots, and I read aloud the names and dates on the stones. Penitence. You find the Scyther at the center of an amphitheater lined with urns, which is also a PokeStop, a memorial digitally immortalized. Scyther gets away. We stay a while. This one, in the turquoise box, shares your last name, and somehow that makes me jealous.
At the park in July, almost midnight. Denver, all 650,000 of us, has never felt more animate. "It's like the opposite of a turf war," you say, but I think that's insensitive. Someone spotted a Lapras here, and the news traveled by mouth from Aurora to Littleton. A man calls to us across the rolling lawn, and we don't even think to be afraid. He just wants to friend us, ask us our team colors, and then your turf war comparison feels a little too on the nose. He carries his daughter's phone. She's at home, asleep with her mom. He's gonna get her that Lapras.
The Perseids. The crowd has the sense to put away its phones for the show, but soon there's a designated area where trainers can gather their light, away from stargazers. They're loud. They're laughing. They're not watching the sky, but soon they're not watching their phones, either. A woman shares a light and a story about beating a gym by herself with nothing but a beefed-up Pidgeot. A boy a quarter her age shrieks in disbelief. Do you think Bradbury would be relieved or chagrined? You finally kiss me after I ask this.