It was a bright day in August when, at the age of twenty, I stumbled upon the future love of my life. A muse. A saint. An Angel.

And soon, things were moving faster than I expected. I was spending money left and right. Exorbitant trips to Chicago. Flights to Venice. I didnt mind. I was truly happy for the first time in my life.

This went on for some time. We became husband and wife. We fathered a son. And then he fathered a son himself, and before I knew it, we were seventy years old.

She said to me one day, "Do you remember how we met?"

"Of course I do," I say, "We met in the park that day in August when it was so br-"

"No," she interrupts, and I'm stunned, "That was the lie we told our friends. Don't you remember how we really met?"

And alas, I do not, for we have been telling the same lie for nearly fifty years. The lie to cover up the strange truth of our untimely meeting, which had, after so many years, became the only truth we know.

"We met without meeting," she says, and I'm confused. "A long, long time ago," she says, "when the ice caps were still made of ice and the sky was still blue, we met under curious circumstance. And when the electricity still ran like water and the old computers still worked, we met without meeting."

I'm still confused, and she can tell.

"It was May," she starts, "and it was cloudy. So cloudy, in fact, that we were both inside. Maybe we were lonely, maybe we were bored, but we were on that website, a country apart."

"The website?" I ask, and she looks disappointed.

"You remember the websites, don't you dear? We found each other there, and you wooed me with your words, and that's when we decided to meet...and-"

And I smile then, and she smiles back, because we both knew that couldn't possibly be true, that two people could ever share these feelings without ever meeting. And I kissed her goodnight, and I turned down the holo-lamps without another word; and that night we slept soundly, dreaming so fondly of meeting on that bright day in August.