A warm August night. Ori and Julie have put away the leftovers in the picnic basket, and now lie curled together looking up at the stars.
"That's my favorite one."
"You have a favorite *star*?"
"Yes. That one. You see?"
"Why is that one your favorite?"
"Mm...because it's the most beautiful, and the brightest, and it makes all the other ones look plain in comparison."
"Ah. I see."
"Also, it's got great hair."
"Oh?"
"Yes. And compliments my deviled eggs even when it knows they're bad."
"You know, I think that one's a planet."
"Whatever."
"Now, me, I love them all."
"You're making it hard for me."
"Hm?"
"See, when you said which one was your favorite, I was going to go get it and surprise you tomorrow morning. But now I guess I've got to get them all."
"People will start to wonder, tomorrow night."
"People can go hang, as long as you have your stars."
"I love you, Oriole."
"Love you, Jewel."
After that, the stars didn't matter anymore.